


Mansöngsskvæði

by Little_tortoise



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies), Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: AU, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, F/M, Kissing, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Loki Lies (Marvel), Loki is an ass, Seduction, Smut, Strong Female Characters, The Gods walk amongst us, Thor AU, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Viking Era AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26727949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_tortoise/pseuds/Little_tortoise
Summary: “By the Æsir”, your father muttered.You gazed at him and frowned in concern. It was so unfamiliar to see him with wide eyes, his face livid in fear. He swallowed hard.“Hello, Eyjolfr”, said the tall, dark man. “Time didn’t spare you, my old friend.”“It’s been a long time.”“Indeed. Twenty-six winters. I thought it was time for debt recovery.”
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s), Loki (Marvel)/Reader, Loki (Norse Religion & Lore)/Original Female Character(s), Loki (Norse Religion & Lore)/Reader
Comments: 99
Kudos: 315





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking for a while about writing something taking place during the Viking era.
> 
> English is not my mother tongue, forgive any misspellings and grammar errors.

You were packing the luggage with the other women of the household, brewing on your anger.

The local Thing had taken place for a week and you had brought some belongings to make your family comfortable in the peat shacks your father and his men occupied during this meeting, where litigations were judged and free landlords were creating a law system upon which maintain a social peace in this place where no king ruled.

Luckily today the weather was good, making it easier to pack everything. It was sunny and somehow warm in these long days nearing summer solstice, so you rolled your sleeves and shut your mind, letting your work numb you, not wanting to think about what had occurred. And miserably failing, as your anger was churning in your chest just like eddies in a hot spring.

Even if you knew this would come sooner than later, as you were of age. At seventeen, many girls were already married.

Már seemed to be nice enough, with his fair hair and pale eyes, but he looked stern. He didn’t smile much. Maybe he didn’t want to marry you. Yet he had nothing to say, and neither had you. But his father and yours were good friends. They had been neighbours, back in Norway, before they refused the king Harald Finehair’s tyranny and crossed the sea to settle here in Iceland. And so they had decided for you both. After all, marriage aimed above all to increase the prestige and influence of two families. You could come to like him. With a bit of luck, maybe even _love_ him.

_Don’t dream too much, you silly girl._

Your engagement had been announced during the Althing, as it was frequent. Már and his father had come to see yours, wearing red cloaks and leather shoes, and the proposal had been made, and accepted. When your father had summoned you and asked what you said of it, you had only answered, “It is a good match”. And that was true. Már was a good match, and so were you. Your families were wealthy and of good reputation. You were the only daughter, the last of four siblings. But Már, even being the third child, was now the heir since his elder brothers’death. One day, you’d be the mistress, and an important woman in the district. So why were you so angry?

You had already seen disappointed or distraught future brides, even if they seldom complained or refused their intended. You hadn’t said anything. Chin high in pride, eyes cast down in maidenly modesty, but your jaw clenched, you had been patient and obedient when your father had taken your hand to put it in Már’s. You had cast a glance at him, immediately looking at the grass and the moss under his scrutiny.

As you were strapping wool blankets behind your saddle, you heard footsteps in the moss next to you, probably your father’s, so you refused to acknowledge him, faking concentration on the leather straps, slowly breathing to calm down your feelings.

“Ýrr”.

You startled and jumped at your name, for it was not a voice you were used to that had pronounced it.

Már’s voice, you acknowledged as you turned and saw him. He was quite tall, and it was all the more irritating to have to crane your neck to look him in the eye.

He was standing close enough to you, watching you with his pale blue eyes, his lips thin in his long face. His fair skin was slightly coloured on his cheeks, whether from the wind or anything else, you didn’t care.

You gave him a defiant stare.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He looked around and turned, making a gesture to show the people gathered on the plain.

“Everyone can hear us. There is no harm.”

He was right. Courtship was forbidden, but he could still talk to you in front of your father’s men. A quick glance around you let you know that they acted as if nothing occurred, only taking peeps at the two of you to ensure everything was proper.

“What do you want?”

Your voice was cold and harsh. Angry.

“Speak”, you insisted, “do not make us late. My father worries about the haymaking.”

He smiled, and you cocked your brows in surprise, for you had been knowing him for many years, and seldom saw a smile on his lips. It made him look softer, even boyish.

“So does mine. I just – wanted to say that I am happy to marry you. I prefer that my father chose you.”

You didn’t say anything, only tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and cursing the wind that blew it out right away.

“You know, I’ve been watching you for months. You are more and more beautiful, like a blooming flower. Like holtasóley.”

You turned your head in embarrassment, face red and jaw clenched.

“Here. Take this as a token of my good faith.”

He took your hand and shove something in the palm, then closed your fingers around it.

“Farewell”, he said before turning his back to you and walking swiftly to his father’s shack.

You stood, frozen, your hand closed around the object, watching his lithe form as he walked away. He didn’t turn to look at you.

You heard feminine chuckles behind you and turned to see your brother’s wife and an old, faithful servant who had been like a second mother to you, strapping gear on a pack horse.

“A blooming flower, eh?” giggled Halldóra, your brother’s wife, a young woman with reddish hair and light brown eyes. “He is affectionate, that one.”

“Do not make fun of him”, answered Eydís, the servant. “He is shy with women, he was not at ease. You are too cold to him, Ýrr.”

You shrugged.

“So much for embarrassing me in public.”

What did he give you? You lowered your eyes to your hand, slowly unclenching your fist, and tilted your head in curiosity. Silver and amber beads, perfectly round and polished. A necklace. A very nice one. You abruptely turned to the direction he had taken, searching his frame, but he had already disappeared. Your cheeks burned all the more, from the pleasure you felt from this gift and from the shame you now felt at your having rebuked the boy.

Something fluttered inside your belly, a strange sensation, but not an unpleasant one.

He might really like you, to offer such a jewel.

You shoved your hand in the pocket of your apron, quickly hiding the necklace in it. With a barely stiffened sigh, you went back to your tasks, catching a benevolent smile from Eydís.

Riding home was easier in summer. Today the weather was exceptionally good and all the party travelled swiftly to the Súðúrland, where your father’s farm was located. 

When your father had settled, he had come with his own boats. He had taken the land he had landed on, in the South, and built a farm named Eyjolfsstaðir after his name, and sown his lands. Then he had built smaller farms that he entrusted his men with, cow sheds and dairies to make skyr at the foot of the mountains, and another house near the river Ólfusá, because it was a good spot to fish salmons. And so his riches came from a large extent of land, but also from various resources.

Unlike your brothers, you were born here. Kolbeinn and Gunnar were little boys, and Björn, named after your grandfather, was but a baby when they crossed the sea from Norway. But you, you were much younger than them, being born nine winters after your family’s settlement, at a time when your father didn’t expect his wife to give him another child. Your mother died in childbirth, and you were told it was why your father called you ‘Ýrr’, ‘mad’, because he was mad with grief at losing his wife.

Eydís had raised you, a child between three young men, as a mother. Your brothers’ wives had joined her efforts to run the household, and you had learnt with them to cook and preserve food for long winters, to work the wool your father’s sheep produced, and weave it into a fine woollen fabric you dyed with plants you found on his lands. Brown was a basic colour for work clothes worn by your tenants and slaves. With birch you could dye in pink, lichen gave grey or yellow according to the variety you picked, berries could give grey or blue. It was very pleasant and you found that you loved trying plants and colours.

On the road you chatted with Halldóra about the dairy. It was becoming too small and you had to convince your father to add another building, which represented a lot of work. You liked Halldóra. Her merry talking had managed to enlighten your sombre mood. She was always cheerful and managed to turn a difficulty into an asset, whereas you could spend hours brooding and overthinking.

“Look”, said a man.

Further east, it had rained, and a rainbow was spread in the sky, perfectly linking the clouds and the grazing underneath.

“The Bifrost! The Gods are visiting us!” the man added, laughing.

Looking at your father, you could see he was observing the landscape and the sky, too.

“Don’t make fun of the Gods”, he scolded.

You felt a pang of pity for him. He was making great efforts to stand straight in the saddle, but you knew it was painful for him. He was ageing, reaching fifty-five years, and a long life of hard work and efforts had taken its toll on his once-strong body. You knew you would have to help him out of the saddle, and to bring him warm blankets to ease his aching bones. You spurred your horse and came at his side, giving him a smile.

“Dearest Ýrr.”

“How do you feel, father?”

“I feel like the farm is farther than it should be”, he answered with a wink.

You chuckled.

“We are close now. My brothers’ wives will be waiting for us with a light meal.”

He grunted.

“I am looking forward to a bath in the hot spring.”

You nodded, smiling. This would comfort him.

The farm was close now, settled in a valley. You only had to turn around a low mountain to come to it. The travelling group finally went in sight of Eyjolfsstaðir, and you couldn’t help the warmth spreading in your chest. It was a beautiful, well-tended farm, its wholesome buildings a pride for your family.

One of the men, sent out as scout to let know of the party’s return, came back riding fast.

“ _Þ_ _a_ _ð_ _er gestur!_ ” he said.

A visitor.

Who could it be?

“I do not know him”, added the man.

You gave your father a questioning look, and he only shrugged in ignorance.

A few more minutes later, you discovered the stranger. He seemed at ease, enjoying the sun on the bench next to the entrance, his long legs stretched before him. He was chatting and laughing with Katla, Gunnar’s wife, who was heavy with child. Raven curls flowed on his shoulders. When the horses stopped, you jumped out of the saddle to help your father. Your brother Björn and you took his arms and carefully helped him to walk towards the man. After just a few steps, the stranger put his bowl of skyr on the bench and stood up in full height, lean and strong and impossibly tall. Your father stopped in his track.

“By the Æsir”, he muttered.

You gazed at him and frowned in concern. It was so unfamiliar to see him with wide eyes, his face livid in fear. He swallowed hard.

“Hello, Eyjolfr”, said the man. “Time didn’t spare you, my old friend.”

“Loptr. It’s been a long time.”

“Indeed. Twenty-six winters. I thought it was time for debt recovery.”

The man turned his eyes to you. Bright green eyes, like pine needles, in his pretty face. He smiled, and you shivered. It was a thin smile, cruel as a blade.

“Won’t you introduce me?”

“Meet Loptr, who I have known in Norway. This is my son Björn, and my daughter Ýrr. Here are my elder sons Kolbeinn and Gunnar.”

“Ýrr”, the man purred, and you didn’t like how your name sounded on his tongue. “What a fitting name.”

Your father lurched, and both Björn and you stiffened to steady him.

“Come, _pabbi,_ come sit inside.”

The three of you entered the house, walked him to the master’s high-backed chair, and helped him to sit.

“Who is this man, _pabbi_? How comes you have known him in Norway? He is barely older than Kolbeinn”, said Björn in a low voice.

He didn’t answer, only staring at you in silence. In the dim light of the grease lamp, his eyes seemed wet.

“Oh, _dottír mín_. I wronged you so much.”


	2. Chapter 2

Your father refused to explain more about the stranger, and you didn’t dare asking him about the debt he seemed to owe him. But every time he set his eyes on him, he looked like he was seeing a _draugr_ , a revenant.

You were sitting on the wooden stage at the end of the back room – the stove room – with the other women, spinning wool with a distaff, and quietly listening to the talking and singing of the men sat on the benches against the thick walls. Usually you liked to chatter and laugh and sing, but tonight you were shy and wary, not wanting to be noticed. You turned your attention on the wool, swiftly spinning it between your thumb and index then rolling it on your spindle.

Your father was acting like the master. But small hints – the way he fidgeted his fingers, his uneven breath and quick temper – showed his nervousness enough. Tonight, his hair seemed greyer and his forehead seemed to bear more wrinkles. He looked older. What kind of debt could that Loptr have come for? Your father was an honourable man, he had nothing to hide nor to be ashamed of. Everyone respected him in the district. So why was he so troubled by this stranger?

Loptr had spent the evening sitting in the stove room, his long legs stretched and crossed at the ankle, drinking ale and listening with a smile. He had not spoken much, and always in riddles. His tunic of dark green fine wool, adorned with black and gold silk embroidery at the collar, had caught your eye. The pattern figured interlaced snakes. It was an exquisite work which you wanted to try and reproduce. He obviously wore expensive and refined clothes, but was travelling alone and seemingly without any belonging. There was something unsettling about him, that you didn’t manage to understand.

When you felt eyes on you and lifted your gaze, he was staring at you, his green eyes glowing in the shadow, a slight smile on his lips.

Your stomach clenched and your breath stopped in your throat. Fascinated, you found yourself unable to tear your gaze from him, which caused him to smirk.

That bastard.

A nudge from Eydís made you gasp. The old woman was scolding you, a deep frown between her brows.

“I can’t breathe”, you whispered. “I need fresh air.”

You stood abruptly and strode – rather ran, to be honest – to the door, then to the paddock. Chest heaving, you took several gulps of air, fighting your dread. Large clouds partially hid the sky, and the cool wind made you shiver.

Wiping your moist hands on your apron, you noticed a bulge in a pocket.

You plunged your hand in it, surprised to discover Már’s necklace. You had nearly forgotten it. Contemplating it in your palm, gleaming in the late sunlight of summer, you smiled to it. Már didn’t frightened you. He was calm and guarded, and having no choice but to marry him angered you. But he didn’t look to be up to no good like the man that was now treated as a guest in your father’s house, yet was unnerving the whole household.

*****

A rake in hand, you were working in the hayfields. Even though you were the master’s daughter, you did your part in the tasks of the farm. You had to know what was to be done, since you has been raised to rule your own household and estate as a married woman. Your hair was tightly plaited and enclosed in a kerchief to avoid its natural tendencies to be unruly, and you had rolled your sleeves to the elbow, your neck and forehead moist with sweat under the effort of the haymaking. The dull monotony of the task was as soothing as it was boring. On the one hand, it helped you to numb your mind and avoid overthinking. On the other hand, after a fitful night full of strange dreams, you didn’t feel rested and your eyes were heavy with sleep.

Yet you liked working with your brothers and your father’s household. Men cut the grass and women raked it to make it dry. You had to achieve the work while the weather was good if you wanted to have enough food to feed the cows during the long winter. Halldóra had started a work song about the tasks of summer and their promises of food, and you had gladly joined her along with the other women. The scent of the cut grass in the warm summer air, the sunlight, the singing voices, the light stinging of the hay on your bare arms, it all made you happy. It felt like summer and the happiness of the long days. Almost like carelessness, if you didn’t have to save all possible food to face the long, harsh winter.

After a few hours, your father gave the signal for lunch break. You sat in the grass with Halldóra while servants and slaves gave out bread and cheese. You took off your kerchief to make it dry flat on the grass.

Someone you hadn’t seen coming sat beside you and you turned to them, smiling. Your smile fell, seeing it was Loptr, and you frowned instead. He sat nonchalantly, half-laying in the grass, propped on his elbows, a blade of grass between his teeth. He blatantly stared at you, his eyes on your hair, face, neck. You turned your head to avoid his gaze, unnecessarily nervous, irritated against yourself because you felt your cheeks burn with a flush.

“A slave is going to bring us something to drink”, you said politely. It was your role: you had to make sure a guest was well-treated. All the more if he had volunteered for helping his host with his fields.

“You shouldn’t cover your hair, you know. It glints nicely in the sun.”

His voice was low and velvety. Dark, in a way, its deep sonorities gravelling in his chest like the lava shingles in the river. You kept silent. A slave was approaching with a basket, bringing food and water. You accepted the bread and cheese she handed to you, and gladly took a mouthful. Halldóra and Loptr both did the same.

“No, you are wrong. But Halldóra’s hair shines prettily”, you answered after swallowing, pointing a finger to her reddish plaits.

You exchanged a look and a smile with her. You really went along together. She had wed Björn five years ago, and you felt like she was your sister and you had been knowing her all your life.

“Just like copper”, you added.

Your hair was a dull brown, like the peat used to insulate the farm’s walls against the cold winds and the snow.

“I like yours”, he said. “It makes you look like a _t_ _ó_ _fa_.”

 _T_ _ó_ _fa_. Vixen.

You almost choked on the water you were drinking from a skin and cast him a questioning look. Was he courting you, a betrothed girl, in front of a woman of your family? Had he no shame at all? He chuckled lightly, watching you with his green eyes, green like birch leaves, glinting with cleverness and shadowed by long, black eyelashes.

“Wary, brown-haired, with observing keen eyes. And shrewd, obviously. A _tófa_.”

“I am not wary”, you huffed, shrugging.

He chuckled again.

“I’m vigilant”, you snapped.

“Is that so? Anyway, you are a bad liar.”

His voice was teasing. The bastard was skilled. He played the pleasant man when he was here for his own profit and your father seemed on pins and needles because of his presence. You had heard the poor man turning and sighing in his bed during the night. You sent a pleading look to your sister-in-law, rolling your eyes.

“Where are you from, Loptr?” asked Halldóra.

“I come from afar.”

“And where is that from?”

He gave her an uncanny smile.

“Beyond the high mountains of Norway.”

When his silence streched, she looked at you, eyebrows raised in surprise. Guests normally spoke about them and shared the tales of their travels. But she was curious, and kind, and not easily vexed. She ate her light meal, but you knew she would want to know more. You just had to wait before she spoke.

“And when did you arrive here? Where did your boat land?” she asked again, after a few minutes.

He had finished his food. He had reclined and totally laid in the grass, an arm tucked under his head.

“Not long. Not far”, he answered, an undecipherable smile on his thin lips, and he closed his eyes.

The message was clear: the small talk was over.

You huffed in annoyance. If he did not want small talk, maybe you could speak about something of importance.

“Tell me, Loptr, what is this debt my father owes you?”

Your tone was a bit harsh and you knew it. You didn't care.

“Ýrr, this is rude”, whispered your sister-in-law.

She was right. You were being rude, but so was he, wasn’t he? Anyway, he opened his eyes and shot a penetrating look to you. You felt uneasy, even if you couldn’t bring yourself to regret your question.

“I think the explanation is not mine to give, _tófa_. Ask Eyjolfr.”

“No. Tell me. How much does he owe you?”

He sighed and squirmed on the grass, making himself comfortable, his eyes closed once again.

“It is not about money.”

Did he think his terse words could easily dispirit you? You wanted to know why he was here, what his presence implied for your family. Who he was and why your father was so distraught by him. You turned to him and sat cross-legged, poking his shoulder to catch his attention. You had to ask the right questions, if he didn’t want to talk. He opened his eyes and sighed in obvious annoyance.

“What does he owe you?”

He sat back, facing you. Even sitting on the floor, he was taller than you. He narrowed his eyes and leaned slightly, his voice low and dark.

“It is not about what. Rather about whom.”

“Is that so? A slave?”

“No.”

He stood abruptly and you followed suit, not tolerating to be turned down. You poked his chest, raising your voice in impatience. 

“Tell me! Answer, you devious man! Whom does he owe you?”

Halldóra took your arm and pulled it to drag you away from the traveller.

“Come, sister.”

You jerked your arm away.

“No, I want him to answer, this time! Enough with his charades and riddles. Speak, Loptr! Whom does he owe you?”

He gave you a dark look, and you shivered under his scrutiny, for something wicked and mischievous glinted in his eyes.

"Whom does he owe you?" you asked for the third time, determined to make him speak.

“You, _tófa_.”

Transfixed by his words, you could only gape at him.

“What are you saying?” asked Halldóra.

People were already coming to the three of you, to know what had caused this altercation. You knew your brothers and your father’s men would protect you from the stranger. You stood your ground in silence, and so did he, until you heard your father’s voice asking what was happening.

“This ill-mannered person affirms that you have sold me to him as a slave.”

A slave. That must be what he meant. This bastard.

“I never said such thing”, he calmly said.

“You liar!” you shouted, beside yourself, reaching to him, ready to strike his handsome face and smug smile.

Your father got between the both of you, facing you.

“Calm down, daughter. Let us speak in private.”

You watched him in disbelief. Could he stand with this stranger, this liar, this – whatever he was?

“Off with you!” commanded your father. “Let the three of us speak.”

He was quickly obeyed. On an inviting sign of your father, Loptr and you sat back in the meadow and so did he. He casted nervous glances at you, unable to look very long. There was something wrong. Very wrong.

“ _Pabbi_ , I beg of you –“ you started, unable to bear his muteness, but he silenced you with a sign. He sighed deeply, as if in pain and, his brows deeply frowned, he started to speak.

“Many years ago, when I had to leave Norway because of the tyranny of the so-called King, I struggled to sell my belongings and find a boat. Few would stand against Harald Finehair. Desperate, I finally decided to go and see the völva, and bargain with the Gods. Only one answered. He favoured me, giving me boats, seeing that we sailed safely, and that we could live a prosperous life. He only asked for – the price he demanded – I –"

He was struggling to make his confessions.

"I thought at that time it would be of little importance. How wrong I was! He wanted – a night with my virgin daughter.”

You gasped loudly, covering your mouth with your hand. You felt sick.

“I thought I could outwit him, for I didn’t have a daughter back at that time.”

He chuckled darkly at his own words, and Loptr chuckled in echo.

“And then, when I thought I would never have to pay my debt, you were born. That is why I named you Ýrr, to remind me the madness of this bargain.”

Unable to speak nor make a sound, you could only flicker your eyes between the two of them. Your father seemd older than ever, while Loptr smiled calmly, apparently enjoying a good tale.

“The Gods have been merciful enough to spare the knowledge of this disgrace to your mother”, the old man added, his voice threatening to break.

Your released a breath.

“And what – what does _he_ have to do with this?” you managed to ask, pointing to Loptr.

You didn't understand. He was so much younger than your father. How could he possibly be in relation with this obnoxious bargain?

The man rolled his eyes and smiled in an over-patient way, like he would have done with a difficult child.

“And I called you ‘shrewd’”, he sighed. “You really have no idea of who I am, do you?”

You shook your head, unwilling to understand, dread swirling in your stomach.

“You might know him by many other names”, said your father. “Son of Farbauti and Laufey. The originator of deceit.”

Loptr was watching you intently, his bright green eyes gleaming with mischief and amusement.

“Hveðrungr. The Lie-smith. The Silver-tongued God. The Trickster God.”

With each epithet, you felt the nausea swelling in your belly. You _knew_ him. The Æsirs’ calumniator, the father of monsters, the disgrace of all gods and men. Yet you had forgotten Loptr to be one of his many names.

“Loki”, you whispered, almost choking on his name.

“My pleasure”, he whispered back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the result of this night's insomnia. Enjoy!

You rose to your feet, legs wobbling, feeling sick as ever. Your breath laboured, your stomach just about to spill its content and your vision blurred, you put a hand on your belly, and took a step backwards, lurching under the intense swirl of the emotions exploding in you. Betrayal. Anger. Fear. No, not fear. Terror. It all almost caused physical pain, your chest too tight to contain your heart and lungs, your head threatening to split.

“Daughter”, called your father.

You didn’t answer, heaving, fighting for air, your face turned to the sky, lowly pleading Frigga to intervene and shield you from the Trickster God.

“She won’t help, you know.”

Loki had come close to you. His voice was low and deep, as if to tame a wild horse.

“She doesn’t care about what I do in Miðgard, as long as I treat you well.”

Unable to hold back any longer, you struck him in the face, hard, disappointed because his head barely moved under the blow. A sharp pain in your hand made you cry out, but you managed to snarl.

“Never!”

Holding your hand against your chest, you turned and ran to the longhouse, Eydís on your heels.

“This is fate, girl!” he called after you.

You ran and ran, until you rushed, totally out of breath, into the _dyngja_. It was the women’s house, where they gathered to dye and weave wool. It had also been used as a nuptial room, where your brothers had spent their wedding nights.

The perfect retreat.

No man would follow you in here.

No God, either, or so you hoped.

 _Never_. You would never submit to him, to this. You never chose to be part of this agreement.

_You never chose to be betrothed to Már, either._

Suddenly this wedding seemed to be the lesser of your concerns.

You sank on your knees, curling on yourself, cradling your hand, and let your tears flow. You couldn’t move two of your fingers and the pain in your hand was intolerable. Alone in the dark room, you could cry and no one would witness your distress. You rocked back and forth, sobbing uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the suffering and grief.

A warm embrace engulfed you, and Eydís’ soothing shushes were murmured against your hair. She cradled you at the rhythm of your rocking, and you couldn’t help but sobbing louder now that she was here to comfort you. She let you cry your heart out until your tears ran dry and you felt hollow.

“Tell me, child”, she whispered motherly.

And so you explained with a few words. Your father’s deal with the Gods. The payment. His betrayal. She watched you intently, a deep concern in her eyes. When you finished, comforting smile spread on her wrinkled lips.

“Oh, my sweet child. You are so candid. Didn’t you guess who he was?”

You could tell by her words, that _she_ did. You shook your head, feeling like a fool. A perfect idiot. The stupidest girl in the North. He had called you ‘shrewd’, when you were only naïve.

“I will never surrender to him.”

She stroked your shoulders.

“I’m afraid you have little choice in this, darling. He has chosen you long before you were born.”

“Never!” you shouted, fighting a sob. “I’d rather die”, you added weakly.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

You jumped, startled by Loki’s dark, sinful purr. He was leaning against the doorframe, his shape dark in contrast with the sunlight flooding by the entrance.

“Leave me be!” you cried, clutching to the old servant.

She shushed you once more and disentangled from your arms, rushing to him.

“My Lord”, you heard her say, “please let me talk her into this. She is young and afraid. Please be kind and patient to her.”

He _growled_ , and for some reason you couldn’t understand, the sound made you shiver. But it was not out of fear. It was something else. Something thrilling that you couldn’t figure out. You turned and watched him as he approached carefully, showing his hands as to show his good will.

His good will. The God of Deceit. It almost made you laugh.

He crouched next to you and extended a pale hand, watching you intently with those green eyes, his dark brows frowned in an almost authoritative way. By the Æsir, he really was too beautiful to be honest.

“Your hand is broken. I heard the bones crack.”

“So what? Are you going to cut it off because I dared to hit a God?” you spat.

Eydís quietly gasped at your outrage, but he only chuckled. This – despicable God was making fun of you.

“Thanks the Norns, I never dreamt you would be so feisty. I absolutely adore it.”

You gave him an incredulous look.

“Show me that hand, girl”, he sternly demanded, and you obeyed.

He cautiously took it in his long fingers, brushing the skin with his thumb, then blew on it. You were watching him, transfixed and barely breathing. Your eyes widened as a soft green light sparkled from his skin to yours and you felt warmth penetrate your hand. The heat soon became unbearable and painful, crawling up to your wrist and forearm, and you tried to take your hand back. But he was now firmly holding it and you had no choice but to endure the pain in your broken bones with a rough cry. When finally the pain subdued, you slouched and he gathered you in his arms, kissing your palm.

“I know it’s painful. You’ve been so brave. I’m so proud of you.”

He was purring in your ear, and while your mind wanted to spurn him, your limp body felt oddly comforted by his presence and whispered praises.

After a few moments, you shook yourself from your torpor and pushed him back.

“Don’t touch me”, you hissed, and he let you go.

You clumsily stood up and he mimicked you, holding out a hand to catch you. You slapped his fingers without a second thought. His eyes narrowed, a mean expression in his irises.

“Careful, girl”, he snarled lowly.

You retreated to Eydís, holding his stare in defiance. He smiled malevolently.

“Please, do not hurt her. Be gentle with her”, pleaded the old woman.

He took a step to the both of you, then another, until he leaned upon Eydís, a wicked smile on his lips, so tall that you both had to crane your neck to look at him.

“Do not worry, old witch. I prefer my women wet and wanting.”

And he strode outside.

***

You stayed in the _dyngja_ for the rest of the day, refusing to see anyone but Eydís. Eventually, come evening, Halldóra and Katla came with two bowls of oats and a plate of bread and cheese. Thordís, Kolbeinn’s wife, followed with fish and light ale.

As you tried to eat, your mouth dry and stomach clenched, your sisters-in-law sat next to you, wrapping their arms around your shoulders, comforting you. Eydís explained what had happened and the three women listened intently, making small sounds of concern or understanding.

“What are you going to do, sister?” asked Halldóra.

“Nothing”, you whimpered, shaking your head in refusal. “I hate Father.”

Thordís sighed.

“Look, Ýrr. We are all very comfortable here, thanks to Loki and your father. The farm is very prosperous, we don’t lack anything, and he only asks for one night. You just have to lay on your back and spread your legs, so now be grateful and do your duty.”

You gave her a miserable look. She was hard and surly, and already behaved as if she was he mistress here. You didn’t like her.

“It is easy to say”, you snapped, “when you’re not the one to whore herself.”

She shrugged with contempt and left. Katla and Halldóra watched her leaving.

“He’s mean. He scares me.”

“I think he is quite easy on the eyes”, said Katla, giggling.

You had heard her and Gunnar, at night. It seemed that being with child made her want her man even more than ever. You nudged her, careful though not to touch her belly.

“Go on, then, sleep with him.”

“I’d rather not sleep”, she giggled, and you elbowed her all the more in her arm.

Halldóra quietly scolded her. It was not the time for such jokes. When she asked if you wanted her to keep you company for the night, you gladly accepted.

There were only the three of you in the _dyngja_ when you laid on the large bench used to sleep at night. Eydís slept on another one, tightly curled in her blankets, and quickly she was snoring.

“Do you think Thordís is right?” you whispered in the dark.

“I think you’ve had a lot to proceed in a few days. Your betrothal to Már and now, _this_. No wonder you’re out of your mind.”

You kept silent a few minutes. You barely had thought about Már.

“What will he say when he founds out?”

“That you’ve been touched by a God? He can’t rival him. He won’t say anything.”

You kept silent again.

“Maybe”, she whispered after a silence, “if you are kind to Loki, he will favour you like he has favoured Eyjolfr.”

You let out a small sob at the thought.

“Then I’d not be a prize. Only a whore.”

How could anything of it be good? You sobbed quietly in her arms.

She shushed you and cradled you until you fell asleep.

Your rest didn’t last. At first, you had slipped into unconsciousness. But gleaming green eyes and dark whispers bothered you even in your sleep, and you woke with a jolt. It was dark, it must be the few hours when the sun sank behind the horizon during these long days of summer. Halldóra and Eydís were sound asleep. You sat on the edge of the bench, your bare feet on the planked floor. You decided to have a walk in the freshly-cut meadow. Maybe you could use a bit of fresh air to ease your mind?

You put a woollen shawl on your shoulders and slipped you shoes on. There were always lava stones hidden in the grass and you didn’t want to hurt your feet unnecessarily. As you walked through the meadow, watching the starry skies and trying to proceed what you were going to do, you caught the distant murmur of the river. That _could_ be a way to avoid it all. You walked to it.

The river was rather calm at this time of year, but it was deep all the same. You stood on the banks, your body stiff and mind numb, contemplating the dark water. It ran at your feet, cold and calm, down to the sea.

Could you prefer this to _him_?

Drowning in cold water.

An awful death.

Could it be worse than being raped by a God?

 _No_ , you decided.

You took a step and entered the river. Then another step. And another. You had water up to your knees, and it was cold, so cold. It felt like thousands needles in your skin and muscles. A few more steps, and the icy water went past your thighs. Your teeth chattered in cold, but you kept on walking, the pain almost unbearable when the water passed your stomach. On the next step, you didn’t feel anything under your foot. You had walked in a hole, and with a yelp, you sunk in the water.

You kicked on a mere reflex then stopped, determined to skin and drown. And so you tried to get limp, letting your body go down in the flowing river.

Just when your lungs started to burn and panic surged, you tried to come to the surface, kicking and struggling, but your limbs were cramped and painful. You desperately tried to swim, not so sure now that you wanted to die. And then, strong arms circled your chest and dragged you up to the air.

You coughed and spat water, thrashing about for _him_ to release his grip, wailing offending words as soon as you could breathe enough.

He swam until he was in his depth, then he walked to the riverbank, dragging you all along, even though your legs couldn’t carry you. He dropped you on the grass, your hair a mess in your face and eyes, soaked like a horse that would have struggled to ford a river. You took a look at him. He was standing above you, his tall frame seeming taller from where you were laying, his tangled hair hanging and dripping, his eyes gleaming with fury. Yet his lips were curled – this was not an angry rictus, no – the swine was smirking down on you.

“You fool”, he snarled, “you thought you could outwit me?”

“I told you I’d rather die!”

He growled and bent over you, catching your upper arm and dragging you up. Once you stood, he flipped you over his shoulder and strode to the farm as if you weighed nothing, despite your hitting, clawing and yowling.

He dropped you once again on the grass, straddling you as you struggled to free yourself from his vicious grip. He easily caught your wrists and pinned them down on each side of your head.

“Silence, wench, unless you want me to rape you right here!”

This time, the threat was enough to make you stop. Hadn’t he claimed earlier that he wanted you ready and pliant for him?

“You wouldn’t dare, would you?” you managed to hiss, and he chuckled darkly.

“Don’t try me.”

You only stared at him, your breath shallow, until he smirked once more and stood, pulling you up to your feet. He caught your wrist and resumed his walk to the farm, dragging you without manners, and you followed silently, holding your back as straight and your chin as high as you could. Not wanting to show how defeated you felt. By the time you arrived, you were shivering hard, your teeth chattering despite your efforts to clench your jaws, your chest tight from the cold. Your sodden nightshift was clinging to your skin, dripping on the floor and squelching with each step.

The door of the _dyngja_ creaked when he opened it, waking Eydís and Halldóra. The old servant immediately rose in alarm and he silenced her with one barked command.

“Go sleep with the old hag”, he said to Halldóra.

“You are not going to – collect your debt right here, are you?” she asked warily.

He let a bitter laugh through his nose.

“No, not tonight. Get a dry shift for her.”

As she searched in a chest, he took off his tunic and neatly hanged it out on the strings where dyed yarn was exposed. You averted your eyes from his naked form. From his strong, lean back and nimble muscles under taut, pale skin.

“Take off this cloth”, he said sternly.

You stayed stiff.

“Get out first.”

“Take it off or I’ll tear it myself”, and you shivered under the threat.

Halldóra hurried with a dry shift in her arms. She went between you and Loki.

“Please, at last, turn around”, she whispered to him, and you were surprised when he obeyed her.

“Off to bed with you”, he said in a low voice when your sister-in-law had helped you to wear the dry cloth and wring out your damp hair.

You crawled back in your bed and he followed you.

You stiffened, rigid as driftwood.

“What are you doing?”

He laid next to you and wrapped a strong arm around your middle. You squirmed and he only held you stronger.

“Ssshh, _tófa_. Tonight is not the night. This is just huddling for warmth, unless you want to freeze to death.”

He was actually warm, deliciously warm. Your back against his chest, you found that you were indeed comfortable, and your eyes were soon heavy with sleep.

“I hate you”, you mumbled.

“I know.”

He curled around you, his body flush against yours, his nose in your hair. The cuddling and the warmth actually comforted you, and you laid a cold hand on his forearm, trying to make the most of his shared heat. Just this night, you could allow him to hold you like this.

Just this night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

The dairy was divided in two rooms: one where to make skyr, cream and butter, the other one to mature cheese.

The rich, smooth smell of cream was filling the air as you turned the stick of the butter churn. Your muscles were already sore and you hadn’t heard the sloshing sound that told you the butter was forming already. You couldn’t bring yourself to focus on the task, even though there was a lot of work to be done. You had to beat then rinse the butter, store the buttermilk and make skyr with the creamed milk.

You couldn’t help but think of _him_.

He had held you in his arms during two nights, never claiming you. Patiently waiting, like a spider building its web around you.

The morning of the first night, after he had got you out of the river, you had woken alone, feeling relieved and yet – a bit frustrated that he left you, because you had been so comfortable in his arms. And your frustration had irritated you.

You hadn’t seen him for all day. But in the evening, he had told your father that he’d sleep with you in the _dyngja_ until the debt was paid. And so he had done. Your brothers Gunnar and Björn had worried about you, but you had assured them that Loki seemingly had no intention to force himself upon you. Kolbeinn hadn’t said anything – that swine – far too content to keep his heirloom if he let the God of Deceit fuck his sister.

Loki had cuddled you through the night and – you had enjoyed it. You had _enjoyed_ being held against his warm chest, inhaling his crisp scent – he smelt of spruce and something cold. In the morning, you had woken with your face in his chest and one of his thighs between yours. You couldn’t see his face for his chin rested on the crown of your head, but you listened quietly to his calm breath and strong heartbeat. And as you had tried to stir, he had closed his arms tighter around your back and pressed his leg against your sex. The gasp that had escaped your lips had caused him to crack his eyes open and smirk down at you. And you had pushed him back and escaped from the bed, feeling mortified that he could elicit such reactions from your body.

You sighed heavily and beat the cream inside the churn with more force, well-aware that you were also beating your frustration out, trying to watch intently the churn and imagining how butter was separating from buttermilk inside. Your arms and shoulders were burning under the exertion, but you kept beating hard, your lips tightly pressed and brows frowned.

At last, you heard the characteristic sloshing sound that indicated buttermilk was separating from butterfat. You paused for a few seconds, jerking your arms to ease your cramps, before resuming your task. You opened the lid to control the butter. It was almost done. You straightened your back to stretch your sore muscles. You poured the buttermilk in a large bowl, reserving a cup for you to drink, and pressed the butter in your hands to put it in another bowl. Then you rinsed it with cold water until it was clear, and carefully put it in a clean bucket, covering it with a piece of cloth. It was now ready to be stored in the pantry, so you took the bucket and exited, heading to the longhouse.

As you crossed the threshold of the dairy, you bumped in someone and screeched, clutching the handle, not wanting to spill the product of your hard working on the floor. _He_ steadied you, saving your work. You watched him, your chest heaving from surprise and the efforts you had made before.

“You’re flushed, _tófa_.”

His voice was low and deep, and you shivered involuntarily.

“Yes, I just churned butter”, you whispered back.

If you were totally honest with yourself, you were more likely blushing because of his mere presence and the recollection of the morning.

His hand was still on your upper arm, its touch almost burning your skin through the fabric of your dress. You found yourself unable to tear your eyes from his as he slowly leaned upon you, his fingers tightening around your arm. He took a step and you moved back, your shoulders touching the wall behind you. His eyes lowered to your lips and he bowed his face to yours. You were paralyzed, your breath shallow and your limbs numb, just as if he had cast a spell upon you.

Voices startled you out of your trance and you nearly jumped inside the dairy to hide, your neck and cheeks burning with confusion. It was Kolbeinn, discussing about a difficult calving with someone whom voice you didn’t recognize. You nearly jumped too, when you turned and saw him just behind you, a hungry look on his face. He hadn’t made any noise, silently following you. He cornered you, a finger on your lips and the other hand on your hip, listening to the voices, and you silently obeyed, barely breathing, trapped between the wall and his body.

He stared at you, narrowing his eyes as if to dare you to make a sound. When the two men walked away, his fingers went down from your mouth to your chin as he lifted your face and caught your lips with his. You lowered your eyes, unable to hold his intense stare as he kissed you, his raven locks brushing against your cheeks. His other hand snaked to the small of your back, pressing you against him, and you had no choice but gripping his shoulder for balance.

“Ýrr, did you –“

The sentence ended in a squeak as Eydís saw the Dark God flush against you. His fingers faintly released upon you and you took the opportunity to push him and escape from the diary, brushing past the old servant with a sob, not listening to her scolding or his laughter.

The pantry seemed to be a good place to hide. In this time of year, the wooden tuns where to keep pickled meat in brine were empty, the food stocks consisted mostly in milk products such as skyr, butter and cheese. You stored your bucket of butter on a shelf. The bucket of buttermilk was still in the dairy, where you had forgotten it in your haste. You feared to go back there again.

You tried to breathe deeply to calm down, attempting to proceed what had just happened. The lingering feeling of his lips and hands on you. The brush of his hair on your face. His crisp, resinous scent. His strength. Your body was responding to all this. You felt slick between your legs. You hated his smugness and the purpose which he was here for, yet you felt now that your body was beginning to surrender.

Eydís’ characteristic heavy, trailing footstep came behind you.

“Would you care to explain, child?”

“There is nothing to explain”, you sighed. “He followed me inside the dairy and – and you came in.”

She snorted with exasperation, and in the dim light you saw her shrug.

“Kissing the God of Lies made you eager to lie to me, one might say.”

You lowered your head, ashamed. You had always been a poor liar, and you couldn’t lie to her.

“He kissed me. He didn’t even ask.”

She came next to you and took your hand.

“Be careful, child. This is not the price Eyjolfr agreed to pay.”

You watched her, not understanding what she was saying.

“Loki” – and she murmured his name, peeping behind her shoulder as if pronouncing it could conjure him in the room – “is trying to seduce you. This is not the price he asked for when your father was desperate. This is not just one night with a maiden.”

You swallowed, unable to find something to answer.

“I fear for you.”

You were afraid, too.

“I feel trapped. What should I do?”

“My poor girl”, she sighed. “Give yourself to him. Once he’s done, let’s hope he’ll leave you be. I will help you afterwards.”

She took you in her arms, tightly hugging you like a mother. She might be right. Perhaps you should agree to this, and let him do as he please. And as your body – the traitor – was seemingly agreeing, it might even not be too painful. You felt miserable. A lamb to the slaughter. You nodded weakly.

“Alright. I will do it”, you whispered.

Eydís pulled back, watching you intently with concern, her brows deeply furrowed. She set her hands on your upper arms and stroke to comfort you.

“I will give you something to make it easier.”

xXxXx

You spent the rest of the day trying to do your work and miserably failing, for you were so nervous you couldn’t focus on anything but your clenched stomach and the lump in your throat. You had folded Már’s necklace in a double row of beads and pinned it to the round brooches that held your apron on your chest. It was a very nice jewel. You should have thanked your betrothed properly for it. You had decided to wear it as a provocation, to show Loki you were not his. You might let him fuck you, this didn’t mean you had to obey in every way.

You didn’t speak to the God until late evening. He had spent the day in the fields with the men. During the meal, he surveyed you, never averting his angry eyes from you. He had noticed the necklace, obviously.

When everyone prepared for night, you left the longhouse – not wanting to linger under Eydís’ and Halldóra’s wary gazes – and passed into the _dyngja_. The Dark God followed suit, startling you when he shut the door with more force than necessary.

“What’s this?” he sneered, picking the necklace between his thumb and index. “A gift from some farmboy?”

“From my betrothed.”

You hoped you managed to appear strong and hard, your voice firm and your shoulders squared.

“A farmboy all the same.”

“I actually like him.”

He chuckled darkly.

“You are lying. I can smell it like a hound smells blood.”

“Oh. I bet I can trust you with this, at least.”

He grabbed your arms and pushed you, slamming your back into the wall, his eyes flashing with fury. You glared at him, trying desperately not to bat an eyelid, acting brave when you were scared of him.

“Trying to be smart, are we?” he snarled lowly, and you shivered at the sound of his voice.

Oh, by the Æsir. His voice.

You released a shaky breath, and his lips were on yours, strong and demanding, his body pressing you into the wall, his hands on your hips and waist and upper – _oh_.

His mouth parted and he licked your lower lip, and you felt a rush of wetness between your thighs. You made a small sound, like a weak moan in his mouth, feeling mortified, realizing you were leaning in and kissing him back. As you parted your lips, his tongue passed your teeth and brushed yours.

You turned your head to break the kiss, your breath laboured. Immediately, his mouth was on your neck, kissing, licking, sucking, nipping. And his hands – _oh_ – his hands were _everywhere_. As he brushed your sex through your clothes, you gasped loudly, and he literally _growled_ in your ear, like a feral beast. This was – too much.

“Wait”, you panted.

His hands stilled on your waist and he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, watching you through half-lidded eyes, silent, and your throat worked with difficulty as you tried to swallow.

Alright. You could do this.

Just one time.

You unclasped a brooch, then the other, letting them fall on the floor along with your necklace and apron, and stepped out of the garment.

He tilted his head on one side, a brow arched and a smug smile on his handsome face. Arrogant as ever. Had he been gentle and caring, you would have gladly indulged. But you only felt like a mouse between the paws of a fox and suddenly, you were not so sure that you wanted him.

Better get rid of it.

You managed to move to the bench where you slept, slightly surprised that he let you go. You took off your dress and laid on your back, hitching up your shift on your thighs.

He moved to follow and sat on the edge of the bed, removing his boots and tunic. You felt like you were about to choke, a lump in your throat and your chest heavy. Your eyes stung, tears threatening to form, and you cast your gaze on the ceiling to focus on something else than – _him_ – _this_.

You bent your knees and opened your legs.

“Get it over with”, you managed to say, your voice hoarse and unsure.

He laid down next to you and lightly kissed your shoulder, his fingers lazily trailing on your belly.

“Oh, darling, this won’t do.”

He dragged the fabric down to your knees and rolled you on your side, curling around your back, a strong arm holding you flush against his hard chest.

“You don’t – want me?”

“Not like this”, he whispered, and you released a small sob of relief.

He grabbed the covers and pulled them over the both of you. His long, heavy body pressed against your back and his face nuzzled in your hair.

“I don’t want you to resign yourself, girl. You have to _want_ this. I’m not a rapist.”

He lightly kissed your hair.

You kept silent, listening to his breath, trying not to shiver under his touch. You failed when he let out a raspy breath in your ear.

“You should also know I’m not the kind of person to ‘get it over with’.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all of you who left kind and inspiring comments! It's so stimulating!

The truth was, you were curious. And seemingly _aroused_ , too, after you had dreamt of the God.

And so, before morning, when you opened an eye with your head on Loki’s shoulder and your hand on his heart, as his skin felt wonderfully warm and soft under your fingertips, you lightly stroked it, inhaling his scent of spruce and ice, softly sighing in contentment.

He was sleeping with total abandon, an arm sprawled across the bed, the other one hanging over the edge. It was the first time that he was so sound asleep: he usually was awake before you, even if he didn’t move until you stirred.

Biting your lower lip in anticipation, you trailed down your hand towards the taut muscles of his stomach. They felt smooth and relaxed, yet firm, under your fingers, rising and lowering with his calm breath. You didn’t want to wake him. But you couldn’t help pressing yourself into him, either. You hiked a leg over his leather-covered thigh, just to experience once more the sensation of it against your sex. 

It felt – _good_.

You tilted your hips once more, and then again, your lower belly burning with warmth and your folds slick with arousal. You had already pleasured yourself and knew what sensations your body could provide. In the darkness and the peace of the _dyngja_ , you felt hungry for it.

You had dreamt of _him_.

Of his kissing. Of his hands on you, caressing your waist and hips, fondling your breasts. It had almost been enough to make you come in your sleep, and the memory of it made you whimper.

“Wicked little thing.”

You nearly jumped out of the bed at hearing his dark whisper, but his arms circled you so fast you couldn’t move.

“Enjoying yourself, are you?”

One hand was dangerously close to your breast, and his other hand trailed on your thigh.

You only gasped, and he chuckled.

“Did you have pleasant dreams?”

“Yes”, you breathed, remembering the dream, his weight above you, his hands on your skin.

Right as if you had described it to him, he growled lowly, the sound graveling and echoing in his chest, and you involuntarily pressed your hips against him once more.

Just the next moment, you were on your back and he was half on top of you, propped on his elbow, a knee between yours, kissing you hard, and you _moaned_ as his tongue delved into your mouth. You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders and gave in as you kissed him back. He cupped your breast, his longs fingers fondling it and rolling the nipple through the nightshift, and you sighed in his mouth when he rolled his hips and you felt him hard against your upper leg.

Even in the dark, you could feel his smirk.

He slid his hand under the fabric of your shift and gripped your hip, grinding your core against his thigh, and you sighed once more. You felt dizzy under his touch, your mind numbed by the desire and your body answering on its own. Never your skin had been touched by any other hands than yours or Eydís’. The feeling of his cool fingers was thrilling, making your blood race and your heart beat furiously. As you continued to rub against him, pressure tightening in your lower belly, you grabbed a fistful of his hair and bit his lip.

He _growled_. Like an animal.

And just at the same time, his hand left your hip and shot to your sex, a finger sliding into your heat, his thumb pressed on the little nub of flesh above your folds. You gasped loudly, turning your head on the pillow, and he pressed his nose on your temple, whispering in your ear.

“Your pleasure is mine.”

He worked his fingers on you and you felt your body bend like a bow. It was so good, and yet –

“That’s it, girl. Now come for your God.”

White light exploded behind your shut eyelids and you let out a hoarse moan as your back arched and your inner muscles gripped the finger he was sliding in and out your slit. A second burst of pleasure hit you, heightened by the sharp pain of his teeth sinking in the soft flesh between your neck and shoulder, and you cried. It was as if lava was coursing through your veins, from the depth of your belly, both up to your chest and down to your toes.

When the lava receded, he rolled on his back, caging you in his arms and dragging you with him.

“So the little _tófa_ likes it rough. Interesting.”

Even in the dark, you could _hear_ him smirk.

You didn’t answer, not wanting to feed his gloating, focused on catching your breath.

“Sleep, _tófa_ ”, he whispered. “The sun shines but it is too early.”

For once, you obeyed him.

As you cracked an eye open, you realized it had been an error. You were alone in the room, and from the light that was passing under the door you could tell you were late. Very late.

You dressed in haste and renounced to comb your tangled hair, only plaiting it not to look completely dishevelled. When you crossed the threshold, you bowed your head in shame and ran to the byre. The cows needed to be milked.

Halldóra was already there, stting on a stool, working with the red cow.

“Ah, here you are”, she greeted you merrily.

You took a stool and a bucket, and swiftly set yourself to work.

“I’m sorry. I overslept.”

You grabbed another cow’s teats and started to milk the animal, and soon the creamy, warm liquid was foaming in the recipient.

“Ýrr. What happened?”

You swallowed, unsure.

“What do you mean?”

Not hearing anymore the characteristic _pshh_ of the spraying milk in her bucket, you stopped your hands and turned to her.

She was staring at your neck.

“You’re bruised.”

She rose to her feet and came to you, rotating you to expose your skin to the light flowing by the opened door.

“Did he – did he _bite_ you?”

You nodded weakly and she frowned.

“Is it done, then? He was in a surprisingly good mood, this morning.”

You swallowed once more, your mouth dry.

“Not yet. He didn’t – take me.”

Her gaze flickered from your neck to your eyes. She tilted her head on one side.

“What are you meaning?”

“He gave me pleasure. With – his hand. That is all.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Pleasure? What about the marks you are bearing?”

You hadn’t seen your neck, but it seemed disturbing.

“Look, he didn’t force himself on me. He seemed to like – having his mouth on my neck.”

You swallowed again, holding her stare. You could confess to her.

“Actually, I enjoyed it”, you whispered, blushing hard.

She smiled sadly.

“Oh? Well it’s not so bad, is it?”

You raised your eyebrows and pressed your lips, not sure of what you could answer. Yes, he had pleasured you. But his intentions scared you.

“Be cautious. He is up to no good.”

You bend your head and finished your work as fast as possible, then passed in the diary with your buckets. On the way, you crossed your father, who gave you the same wary look Halldóra had worn. You had been too furious with him to speak to him, since he confessed about his deal with the God, during the haymaking. You shot him a glare and brushed past him, but he grabbed your arm.

“What is this?” he asked, placing his fingers under your jaw to tilt your head and look into your neck.

You jerked away. This was his fault. His doing.

“Did he –“

“Fuck me? Not yet”, you spat.

“What? Why? Did you fight him? Did he brutalize you?”

He looked concerned. Well, it was a bit late for that, wasn’t it?

“You sold me to the God of Lies. Did you expect him to play fair?”

He stayed here, livid and dumbfounded, so you left him with a shrug and went back to your work.

Eydís was right. Loki was determined to seduce you. To ruin you for any other man. You couldn’t allow him to play with you like that. You had to do something. Halldóra and Katla joined you in the diary to help you with the milk. Katla sat to collect the cream, as she was nearing her term. Her workload had been alleviated but she liked coming in the dairy all the same, giving a hand and chatting. Naturally, she commented the bruises on your neck, and you rolled your eyes.

“You’d better tell Eydís right now”, you muttered, “or else she’ll make a fuss.”

Katla giggled, but Halldóra gently scolded you.

“And she’ll be right. Loki bargained a night with a virgin. It’s been three nights, and he did not take you. Instead of that, he kissed you and gave you pleasure. And bit you for all to see.”

You kept silent. She was right and only confirmed what you had thought.

“Have you thought of Már?”

“I have”, you confessed, defeated. “He might not have me when he learns of the whole affair.”

She made a small grunt of approval.

“Well you can’t afford that. Eyjolfr may let Loki do as he please, but I cannot let him destroy your life. We must go speak to him.”

You dreaded to confront him, but she was right. You had to try.

“The men are fishing salmon in the river. Loki is with them. You should wait until they come back”, said Katla. “You could use having your brothers at your side.”

Halldóra exchanged a long look with you, then nodded. Katla was right. Meanwhile, you set yourself on making skyr, sowing skimmed milk with rennet to make it curdle.

When at last the men came back from the river, the three of you joined them near the longhouse. You had prepared what you would say. Your brothers gave you a curious gaze when they saw the determined look on your face. If they knew. As before, you were pretending to be brave when you were only nervous and afraid of confronting Loki in public. You stopped in front of him with your head high and back straight, placing yourself so that Björn and Kolbeinn could see the lovemarks on your neck.

“Loki, God of Mischief, of Lies and of Deceit, I have cause for complaint about you. I speak before my brothers and my father’s men for them to witness.”

The Dark God rolled his eyes and tilted his face to the sky in utter boredom.

“Ah, Norsemen, always so fussy with law”, he muttered.

You inhaled, your determination only fuelled by his sarcasm.

“You have bargained my father’s wealth in exchange of my maidenhood. Now, you are not standing by your commitments, because you are trying to seduce me. Our laws do not allow seduction and you must respect them, or I will complain to Frigga Allmother.”

He huffed through his nose and shook his head, an arrogant smile on his thin lips.

“What do you complain about, girl?”

“Seduction. Debauchery. This was not the deal.”

He took a step to you, giving you a dark, sly look that made you shiver.

“You seem to like my kisses well enough.”

Another step. Then another.

“You seem to enjoy it when I have my hand between your legs.”

He was now towering to you, dark and intimidating, but you glared at him all the same, even if you felt a burning blush creeping up your neck and to your face. The memories of the pleasure and your still sensitive sex made you press your thighs together. He cocked his head to the side, smirking, just as he knew what you were thinking of. He leaned slightly and _sniffed_ , like a predator, and you bit your lower lip, definitely feeling heat pool in your core. He made a small sound, half chuckle and half grunt.

“Ýrr is right”, said Gunnar. “You cannot try to seduce her, this is disrespectful. You must know that she’s recently been betrothed.”

Loki lazily waved his hand to your brother, motioning him to be quiet.

“You’re not the one I’m talking to, mortal.”

He didn’t even bother to turn his gaze to him, never tearing his eyes off of you. The qualifying term had clearly been used with disdain.

“You might be an _Ás_ , but still you can be decent and respect our sister. She agreed to pay off our father’s debt, as difficult as it might be for her. Now don’t play with her. Take what you came for and let us be.”

It was Björn, the sibling whom you preferred. He had walked next to you and Loki turned his gaze to him, looking daggers. The God straightened and took a sharp inhale through his nose.

“Right”, he said with an exasperated pout. “Pack blankets and food, _tófa_. We are going to ‘get it over with’, as you said.”

He turned his back to you and strode to the paddock. You frowned, not understanding. From the looks of your siblings and their wives, neither did they.

“Are we going somewhere?”

He didn’t answer, so you walked after him, then ran, for his long legs didn’t allow you to catch up. When you were close enough, you poked his arm, repeating your question. He stopped and turned so abruptly you almost bumped into him. He caught your elbows and stroked his thumbs over the fabric of your dress, leaning to whisper darkly in your ear.

“Yes, _tófa_ , I’m taking you elsewhere. A place where we’ll have some peace and quiet. You don’t want the whole household to watch out for you to scream in pleasure, do you?”

You swallowed hard, your mouth dry. Was it from discomfort or the sudden desire that washed over you? You lightly shook your head, barely breathing a weak “No”.

“Good. I’ll ride your father’s stallion. It is a nice beast.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was late in the day when Loki stopped Sót, your father’s horse, named after its solid black coat. You had rode hard through moor and lava fields and into the inner land.

Never had he talked to you.

At first, you had ridden along the river. When you had forded it, on the verge of panicking because of the memories of your attempted drowning, he barely had looked over his shoulder to check you were safe. Your horse had kept calm and steady, managing to find its paths amongst the rocks and sand banks but you had tightly gripped its thick mane until it walked safely on the opposite riverbank.

The weather had turned rainy and cold. The woollen breeches you wore under your dress for riding were soaked through, and despite your heavy woollen cloak and the hood protecting your head, you were shivering.

He dismounted at the foot of a cliff and made a gesture for you to do the same, still silent, obviously irritated. You had forced him to act when he wanted to play, and it displeased him. Each of you took the reins in hand, leading your horses. You followed him without a question, knowing he wouldn’t answer in his current state of anger but wondering all the same where he wanted to go.

A croak echoed in the air and you both turned your head to the skies. Two ravens were gliding above the landscape.

“Make haste”, Loki whispered, his brows deeply frowned.

He turned back to the basalt columns of the cliff and headed to a large crack in the rock. It was large enough for a man to sneak in and he approached, obviously intending to enter.

“What about the horses?” you asked, speaking for the first time since you had left the farm.

Horses were part of your family’s wealth and Sót was particularly beautiful, producing colts that were sought after. Már and his father Gizur had requested to pair their finest mare with it.

He waved his hand and the crack seemed to enlarge considerably, allowing the beasts to pass into it. You clicked your tongue to encourage them and followed the God, who closed the fissure behind you. The horses snorted and neighed, being nervous in the dark.

“Shhh.”

He snapped his fingers, and a ball of soft light appeared, floating in the air. He stroked Sót’s neck to soothe him, then walked further into the cave.

“Where are we going?”

The only answer was your combined footsteps and the hoofs hitting the dusty floor.

You were tired, and hungry, and yet you were proud enough not to complain, though your patience was growing thin. What a lovely evening it was going to be, indeed, with the two of you ready to jump down each other’s throat. Nevertheless you followed compliantly, wanting it to be over, eager to return to your life.

When finally you emerged in a large room, the bright ball flew up in the air to give more light. The cave was large and wholesome, though you could hear the murmur of running water. You were surprised to find simple furniture in here: a canvas-strap bed, a stool and a small table. There was hay and straw against a wall, just as if he had prepared his arrival. You led your horse to it and removed the saddle and bridle, and he quietly did the same. He went to a little hearth delimited with stones and lit a fire with a snap of his fingers, then sat on the stool.

“What is this place? You’ve been here before.”

“Mmmmh.”

You sat on the ground, turning your back to him, quietly removing your shoes, gaiters and damp breeches.

“It is a path leading from Miðgarðr to another world. Few know it. No one else, actually.”

“Which world?”

“Alfheimr.”

At last he spoke again. When you turned to expose your skin to the heat and ask him about Alfheimr, he was gazing at your bare legs with his cold green eyes, face stern, lips pressed. You kept your question for yourself.

“You might want to wash”, he said, waving to the end of the cave.

Your eyes flickered to the place he had shown, then back to him and he motioned his head for you to go. You slowly rose to your feet and went to the end of the cave, amazed to see a hot river sourcing in the cave, swirling in a pool and running in a fissure. Its water was clean and translucent.

“Is it not too hot?” you asked, worried about the steam lingering at the surface.

“It’s comfortable enough.”

You tested it with your finger, then with your toes, and decided you could use a bath. You went back to the packed stuff, searching for the wooden bowl of soap you had wrapped in a cloth and picked just in case you had the opportunity to take a dip. You neatly spread your cloak on the floor next to the fire to make it dry and swiftly walked to the water. As you began to unlace your dress, you took a look over your shoulder. His eyes were fixed on you, gleaming in the firelight, and you shivered.

“Don’t look”, you said.

“I have already seen you”, he answered, his tone playful.

“Don’t look all the same.”

He averted his eyes and you swiftly took off your dress and slipped in the pool, kneeling to get covered to your neck, sighing in the warm embrace of the liquid. You wetted your head, too, then took some of the soft soap in the bowl to wash your hair and body. When you finished rinsing, you turned to the edge of the pool, yelping because your eyes met his bare feet. You hadn’t heard him come. You craned your neck to scold him but fell at a loss of words under his intent stare, suddenly aware of your tightened nipples just under the water, as if on display. He beheld you for a few seconds, then dropped a dry linen right in your face, and you heard him walk away with a chuckle.

Once you dried yourself and wore your dress, you went back to the fire and he took his turn in the hot spring. You tried not to look but you couldn’t help casting glances to his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the taut muscles of his back flexing so easily under the fair skin. The drops of water glistening and running down to his – He turned and caught your stare, and you snapped your eyes to the fire in sudden shyness. He chuckled once more.

While he finished, you picked food in your bag: rye bread, butter, hard cheese and dry fish. He wrinkled his nose when he came back and sit, but it would have to do. You ate in silence, observing each other. His damp hair curled nicely on his shoulders, making him look younger and carefree. It suited him.

Did you want him?

The memory of the morning, of the kissing and the pleasure he had given to you, it all convinced you that you did. You could both pay the long-due debt and find it enjoyable.

_Why not?_

He was staring at you, his eyes narrowed. He frowned slightly and tilted his head to the side.

What was he thinking about?

Before he could speak and lie to you again, you moved to him, crouched, holding his shoulder for balance, and kissed him soft and gentle. Compliant.

But you remembered what he had said. _You have to want this_. So you tentatively licked his lower lip and he parted his lips, brushing your tongue with his.

_Oh, Freyja._

He was right. You liked his kisses so much.

He kissed you harder, and when you untied the laces at your collar he replaced your fingers with his, tugging the fabric and kissing your neck and collarbone.

“Will you bring me back?”

Your breath was short and shallow.

“Do you want me to?”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye and nodded.

“Shame”, he sighed.

You grabbed the hem of the dress and took it off along with the shift you were wearing under it, in one swift motion, showing your bare skin to his eyes. Then you did the same with his tunic and he compliantly lifted his arms to let you do.

“Can I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t. Yet now you must.”

His voice was low and husky. It sent shivers down your spin and straight to your core.

“I want to”, you whispered, and for a moment he looked taken aback and – _vulnerable?_

You rose and took his hand, pulling it gently for him to rise too, and he complied. Gently retreating to the bed, never letting go of his fingers, you felt your skin flush under his gaze as it roamed over your body.

You sat on the bed, unsure of what to do now. He stripped completely and you couldn’t help setting your eyes on his proud cock, standing hard and erect in the dark curls of his groin. You swallowed hard, your nervousness now dangerously threatening to become fear.

He kneeled between your legs – a God, _kneeling_ to you – kissing you back, stroking your waist and thighs with his long fingers and you wrapped his wide shoulders to press him against you, press his hard chest on your breasts and his belly on yours.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, his lips still on yours.

“I’ll be gentle, _tófa_. I’ll take care of you”, and you whimpered at his words. How long had you been wanting him? You had been lying to yourself. You understood it now. You had been wanting him since the moment he had dragged you out of the river and you had felt his strong body against yours.

He spread a hand on your belly and pushed you down to the bed. Then, he opened your legs with both hands and you stared at the ceiling of the cave, expecting to feel his weight above you and his cock at your entrance. Neither of them were to feel and you gasped in surprise when he kissed your folds and licked the bud of flesh he had played with the night before. You writhed and sighed under his ministrations, feeling pleasure building in your lower belly, heat pooling and curling in your sex. He slipped a finger inside you and you frowned at the intrusion.

“Relax your muscles, _tófa_. You are wet already.”

Willing your breath to slow, you shut your eyes and did as he said. He withdrew his finger, only to plunge it back, setting on a steady pace, and soon you felt your body accustoming to the feeling of his finger.

“Sweet _tófa_. So wet for me. You’re almost ready.”

He introduced a second finger and the stretch made you hiss in discomfort. He resumed his kissing and licking at your nub, still moving his fingers back and forth, and the pressure grew back in your belly. As you felt your inner muscles beginning to tighten around his fingers, he swiftly joined you in the bed and rolled you on top of him. You whined pathetically in frustration.

“Shhh, _tófa_ ” he chuckled.

He positioned your hips above his, your dripping sex resting against his cock, sitting over it, its length along your slit, between your folds, its head teasingly nestled against your clit. He gripped your hips and tilted them forward, and you moaned wantonly as your clit rolled over him.

“That’s it, ride me”, he whispered hoarsely his green eyes intently fixed on you and a wicked, mad look on his face.

And so you did, grinding your sex on his as his hands rested on your hips, writhing until you trembled and moaned and pleasure blinded you and – and –

The cry that escaped your throat sounded so foreign you covered your mouth with your hand, not knowing your voice could be this hoarse.

You tried to catch your breath and he sat back, folding his arms around you, leaving sloppy kisses on your shoulders and neck, just under your ear. Then he laid down again, caressing your breasts and belly.

“Show me how much you want this”, he said.

You didn’t understand and stayed motionless, looking him in the eye, your lips parted, skin flushed.

“Take me inside you, if you want me”, he said again.

Oh.

Now you understood.

Did he not know how much you wanted him? Was it just out of curiosity – a maiden kept too long from the reach of men when all the girls of her age were already married – or out of something else? No, you knew better. It was more – so much more – than paying an obnoxious debt. So much more than safeguarding wealth and honour.

 _Don’t grow attached_ , your voice murmured in your mind. _He will release you and leave you._

You tentatively lifted on your knees, your thighs soft and weak from pleasure, and took his cock in hand. It was hard but smooth, and warm, like a piece of polished wood. You settled it at your entrance and sat back on him. The width of the tip made you gasp, but as you sunk on him, you felt pressure and – with a smooth jerk of your hips, something ripped inside you, and you let a cry out, slouching on him, wanting to feel his skin to comfort you. He gathered you in his arms, stroking the skin of your back, kissing your temple.

“Shhh. Relax. I know it’s painful, relax. You’re doing so well.”

You let a sob in spite of his whispered praises and soothing strokes, breathing hard, and stayed still for a moment, until you felt your insides adjust to the width and length of him. When the pain receded, you rolled your hips, just a little, and gasped at the sensation. It was – unusual – but almost not painful at all, yet you felt stretched and open around him. He thrust slowly, shallowly, as if testing you. You needed to move, to seek friction, so you pushed up and sat upright, sheathing him deeper, feeling the head of his cock against the opening of your womb, and you threw you head back with a loud groan. With his hands he angled your hips and helped you to roll them over his. His gaze was no more cold nor smug. There was a warmness and – you were surely imagining it – a fondness in his green irises that made you melt, and you pressed down on him, your hands on his chest, meeting his thrusts, finding more pleasure in pushing against him rather than in accompanying him.

His hands sneaked up to yours and he intertwined your fingers with his. There was a tenderness in the gesture you hadn’t expected from him, and you bent down to kiss him. Firmly keeping your fingers in yours, he drew back his hands and rested them above his head, so that you were sprawled above him, your skin flush on his, your hardened nipples grazing on his chest.

And he slowly rolled his hips, exiting from you, before he snapped back into you, and you moaned loudly. Never ceasing his kissing, he resumed the motion. Feeling him sliding in and out of you, the teasing sliding out and the satisfying sliding in, the fullness when he was inside and the loss when he withdrew, the friction on your clit with each movement, it was intense, so intense.

“How do you feel, sweetling?”

His tenderness was disturbing. You were more used to his cold mocking and had expected him to claim his right, not to behave like a lover.

“Good”, you croaked, and he let go of your hands, slid his arms around you, and flipped you on your back. Holding himself on one arm, he crooked one of your legs with the other and drove inside you with a snap of his hips, eliciting a loud groan from both your throats. His fingers were digging in your upper thigh, and with each thrust you felt the pleasure in your belly, feeling the tension building, like that day you had been caught in the backwash and had been dragged by the might of the ocean, struggling to stay upright.

His hand snaked to your clit, nimbly rolling it, and you felt yourself losing your focus, your hips moving by their own volition.

“Just like this, _tófa_. Let me hear again how foxes yelp on the moor, how my _tófa_ squeaks for her God.”

His honeyed purr combined with the agile strength of his body, his fingers, his groans, it was too much and yet not enough. You shut your eyes, throwing your head back, and he grabbed your hair with his other hand.

“No. Open your eyes, look at me.”

You obeyed.

“Look at whom his making you writhe and moan.”

You fixed your eyes in his, lips open and brows knitted in pleasure, sighing and moaning under him.

“Who am I?”

“Loki, I –“

With a particular jutting thrust, the swell of pleasure broke and a wave crashed upon you, tearing a throaty sound from you. Your insides clenched around him and your hips jerked, prolonging your pleasure as he thrust frantically, searching his own climax. He stiffened in your arms with a low, feral growl, his eyes shut, his neck so tense you could see the cords and veins in spite of his long hair shadowing it, then gave a few more thrust as he emptied himself in you.

When the two of you could move again, he helped you to the hot spring. The water made you hiss at first, but soon ease the soreness in your muscles and folds. Then he took you again in the water, your bodies weighing almost nothing, and you gladly gave your pleasure to him one more.

You woke flush against him, your legs tangled in his, holding each other, your unruly hair mixing with his dark curls, and you knew he was awake, too when he stroked your upper arm.

“It is time to go”, he whispered. “I’m taking you back.”

You dressed back and when you turned to him, he presented you a goblet filled with a dark liquid.

“Drink.”

You took the goblet in your hand, brushing his fingers, and turned a quizzical look to him.

“It is an infertility potion.”

“Oh.”

“Your farmboy won’t be happy with raising my child, and Odin won’t tolerate any another of my bastards wreaking havoc in the Nine Realms”, he chuckled.

This didn’t make you laugh.

The idea of being pregnant with a monster like Fenrir, or Jormundganðr, or worst, Hel herself –

You drank down the bitter potion, trying your best not to choke on it.

The journey back to Eyjolfsstaðir was quiet and – somehow mournful. You didn’t understand the feelings that washed over you.

Satisfaction, for the deal was over and you had done what was expected for your family’s sake. Joy, for you had spent delicious hours in Loki’s arms, experiencing new sensations. Relief, for he hadn’t negotiated about your returning home. Then, what was it that made you feel so sad?

He rode a few steps ahead of you and you willingly followed him, not wanting to be at his side. Although the weather was good, you had pulled the hood of our cloak on your head to hide your face. You wished it rained, so the drops could allow your tears to flow unnoticed.

Loki was not wearing his fine woollen tunic. He was clad in green and black leather, his ‘Asgardian outfit’ as he had called it. It made him look all the more impressive and ominous. And it thrilled you, making you rub your wet sex on the saddle, the motion only worsening the want and ache.

At last, when you reached the farm, you took in the landscape and frowned. It was the same place, and yet, it felt – different.

The hay that was drying in the fields two days ago had all been stored, and the grass seemed to have grown again. A thrall saw you and ran to the farm, calling for the family.

What would you say to them?

That you had gladly fulfilled you duty and he made you enjoy it?

That you would regret him?

Or would you lie to them?

Never taking your eyes of your horse’s mane, trying to find something to say, you didn’t notice the long, pale hands that caught the bridle, then set on your hand.

You lifted your gaze to meet Már’s eyes, warm and full of concern. His blond hair was twirling in the wind.

“Ýrr”, he whispered, “your family thought you dead.”

“What? I left yesterday.”

His frown deepened and he helped you dismount.

“It’s been ten days, flower.”

Not understanding, you frowned and turned to Loki. He was watching you with a mischievous smile on his lips, whereas his eyes were dark whenever they settled on Már.

“I couldn’t help myself”, he chuckled.

This Trickster-bastard. You had hoped he would stay to his word when he had only cheated, once more. Hollowness opened in your chest, swallowing the feelings that had been swirling since you had left the cave.

“You can’t stay here. I’m taking you home with me.”

Már’s voice was both soft and firm. Not pleading. Asserting.

Feeling numb, you only pressed your lips and nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Daywriter106 who gave me the idea of the cave!
> 
> Back to the Middle ages ! My Mom brought me raw cream back from Normandy and I made butter with it. No butter churn though, I used a whisk and it was very easy.


	7. Chapter 7

After some teary hugs with Eydis and Halldora, you left your father’s farm almost immediately with Már, his cousin and a few men who accompanied him, as it suited to a man of his rank.

A bag containing some of your belongings had been strapped on a horse while you had a light meal, and you mounted again, wincing at the contact of the saddle on your sore sex. As you arranged your dress to be comfortable for the ride, Loki went close to you.

“Are you sure this is what you want, tófa?” he purred, his voice low and sinful. “You deserve so much more than this cold fish of a peasant.”

You gave him a deterrent look – or so you hoped – before answering.

“Do not presume to know what I want or need.”

A horse went just next to yours, and you felt a boot brushing your calf. It was your betrothed, chin high, setting a cold and haughty gaze on the God.

Maybe he was brave, maybe he was insane to watch the Dark God that way. Loki had tolerated your insolence because it amused him, but he might not tolerate your husband-to-be lacking respect to him.

“No more lies, _Ormstunga_ ” said Már. “She has suffered enough at your hands. Leave her alone.”

You gasped and turned a worried look to him, then to Loki, who let out a dark chuckle, his green eyes sparkling with meanness. A violent shiver coursed through you and a sudden nausea cramped your stomach. Már couldn’t challenge a God, he would have no chance against him.

“Let us not tarry anymore”, you said, sounding too troubled for your likings, and he nodded as he met your pleading gaze, understanding.

“You are right.”

Eager to leave, you spurred your horse, turning it to the North.

The party rode awhile but you had left too late and had to spend the night in a cow shed to take shelter from the rain.

The day after your arrival in Hvalfjörður where the farm was located, you still hadn’t spoken to anyone since you had left Eyjolfsstaðir. Már came and sat next to you on a bench outside the longhouse, where you were spinning wool. The task was dull enough to numb your thoughts. When he sat, calm and quiet, you cast a glance at him. He was looking at your working hands.

“It looks easy when I watch you do this”, he said.

You only nodded, keeping your eyes on the fleece, spinning it in a thin thread. Another silence stretched between you, but you didn’t feel uneasy. Actually, you didn’t feel anything but hollow.

“You seem to like the necklace”, he said again, pointing to your dress.

You were wearing it the way you always did since you had decided to: it was pinned between the two brooches holding the straps of your apron on your shoulders. This time, you turned your gaze on him, meeting his deep blue eyes. He was watching you with kindness, a slight smile on his pink lips, and you felt a pang of guilt, for _you_ had been anything but kind to him.

“I didn’t even thank you for it”, you whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, don’t be. You’re wearing it, it’s a manner of thanking me.”

You turned your head, looking elsewhere, chewing your lip in worry.

“Talk to me, Ýrr.”

You pressed your lips and blinked the tears that were forming.

“Ýrr”, he called again, softly.

“I don’t deserve - you - all of this.”

“Why?”

You gulped uneasily.

“I’ve been nothing but cold and harsh to you. And – what happened the past days –“

You swallowed a sob, and he took your hand, stroking it with his thumb. As you kept silent, unable to speak of it, he leaned to you and cupped your cheek to turn your face to his.

“Did he hurt you? Did he –" and he swallowed hard – “rape you?”

His kind, soft voice, the deep concern in his blue eyes. You didn’t deserve to be treated so gently after you had cheated him, for it was what you felt you had done. You could only shake your head to answer his question and reassure him.

As you closed your eyes to avoid his, tears rolled on your cheeks. He brotherly gathered you in his arms, his hands on your back and shoulders, always respectful, and you pressed your head on his clavicle, allowing your tears to flow.

In the following days, you fell in a deep melancholia.

You felt weak and tired, and though you were dead on your feet, you couldn’t sleep at night, crying all the tears you wouldn’t show during daytime. Food was tasteless and the mere texture of what you ate made you feel nauseated. You could spend hours mechanically brushing your hair, gazing in the air.

Már’s mother, Rannveig, welcomed and treated you like a daughter. She was renowned for her beauty, and you had to admit that your betrothed looked like her for they shared the same golden hair, fair skin and eyes blue like a summer sky. When you had come with her son, she didn’t ask anything, even though you were not married to him yet.

The marriage was set on Haustmánuður, and there was a lot of work to do for the celebration, storing food, weaving wool, sewing and embroidering your wedding clothes. All of it required a great effort, and you felt exhausted at first. But as the days flew, you managed to come out of your despondency a little more every day, until you could share conversations with the women of the farm – until one day Már made a joke about his father’s pig that made you laugh. That day, you could have kissed him for bringing you joy.

One of your father’s men came with a roller of green silk. It was a gift from Loki, left by the God after your departure, for you to sew your wedding dress with. You gawked at the fabric, never having seen such a shiny and soft thing.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Rannveig said as she showed off the silk, making it gleam in the sunlight.

Something from _him_. For you. You approached your hand and almost touched it, only to draw back your fingers as if in fear of being burned.

The choice of colour –

He favoured green obviously, but this particular shade was like his divine leather outfit he wore after – after the cave. He wanted you to wear his colours. To mark you as his.

You knew you if you wore a dress like this, you would keep it as a relic.

If you did, you would never be able to forget him. To forget all had happened. And for now, you only wanted your mind to go numb.

“Get rid of it”, you babbled. “Burn it or drop it in the sea.”

You didn’t want anything from him. He had tricked you, seduced you, played with you.

You gave a hard look to Rannveig, and she put the silk down, never asking a question.

So the next days you wove a fine, beautiful wool that you dyed a pale yellow with wild carrot, and sewed a dress that Rannveig insisted upon embroidering. You embroidered Már’s blue tunic, decorating its collar and cuffs with intricate patterns of wolves and eagles.

Summer ended. Heavy clouds topped the mountains surrounding the Hvalfjörður, pouring rain over the moss and grass. Horses and sheep soon would be gathered for winter, and a large part of the flock of sheep would be slaughtered, the meat smoked or pickled in brine. Farmers had to slaughter their beasts, for the hay collected during summer would not be sufficient to feed all the beasts during the long winter. Your wedding with Már would be celebrated just after this, as food would be abundant enough for all the guests during the feasts.

One morning, Már equipped two horses and took you with him to collect berries.

“It is my father’s idea”, he said when you frowned at him. “Don’t worry about propriety.”

You smiled, bowing your head, biting your lip at your unkind treatment when he had offered you the necklace. He was watching you with a teasing glint in the eye and the ghost of a smile on his lips, holding the bridle of your horse, waiting for you to mount. You complied.

“You seem in a good mood.”

“I’m always in a good mood”, he chuckled, putting his foot in the stirrup and settling in the saddle.

It was true enough. He was easy to live with. Calm and observing, taciturn, always speaking with a purpose. Yet he could sing, and had a beautiful voice. You had come to genuinely like him. He spurred his horse, heading north, and you did the same, riding next to him.

“Why do you want me to come with you?”

“Spend time with you. Chat.”

“You don’t chat.”

He smiled, calm and quiet, his lips drawn in a thin, toothless smile.

“True.”

You waited a few seconds for him to continue. But it was soon obvious he wouldn’t speak much more.

“Why, then?”

You knew it was one of your faults. You could be irritating when you wanted to know something. But he only smiled, then extended his hand to show the landscape. The green and black mountains surrounding the vast fjord, its calm waters. The landscape was different, back at home. Your father had built his farm near the river for the coast was wild. Here, the buildings were close to the shore because the haven was well protected at the end of the fjord. You liked living near the sea, like this, preferring its salty sent to the river’s muddy one.

“It’s beautiful”, you acknowledged.

“One day, you and I will rule this estate. My father’s idea was that I should show our lands to you. That you have to get to know your new home. I agree with him, all the more if we can spend the day together, just you and me.”

“It is a welcome distraction”, you said, grinning at him. You certainly could use a day off your tasks at the farm.

You spent the rest of the morning collecting blueberries on the mountain, gathering them in baskets. They were very much appreciated to flavour skyr as well as to dye wool. You seldom had had the opportunity to go and collect them, so you enjoyed your time out of the farm, humming a tune.

When the baskets were full, Már put his cloak on the grass and sat on it. You did the same with yours and went to the horse to pick the food you had brought. You asked him about his family and ancestors, and he answered your questions, telling stories of his family. How his father had asked his mother’s hand, how his grand-father was a jarl and a renowned skald in Norway. How his brothers died, their _skúta_ crushed by a wounded, furious walrus they were hunting.

After some time, you laid back on your cloak to comfortably listen to him, as he was a gifted raconteur, while watching the white clouds flying by in the blue sky. He laid next to you, pursuing the stories you asked about. It was very peaceful and you enjoyed his voice.

At some point, he stopped talking and you supposed he had talked enough for the day, as he usually was quiet. You cast a glance at him, expecting to see him staring in the air. He was laying on his back, his face turned to yours, his blue eyes watching you, keen and piercing. Heat crept to your neck and cheeks under his stare. His eyes went down to your lips and the back of his fingers brushed your hand. You knew what he wanted. You wanted it, too, feeling something flutter in you belly.

“I’d like to kiss you”, he murmured, and you nodded, giving him permission.

He turned on his side, sliding an arm under your head, stroking your hair with his other hand, and you turned to face him, resting your brow against his. He tilted his face and you mimicked him to meet his lips, in a soft and gentle kiss. He was shy and expectant, and you felt your heart swell, for he was nothing but kind and respectful to you. You put a hand behind his shoulder, feeling the hard muscles of his back, pressing yourself against him, and he let a small groan. As he pulled back to breath, you giggled in happiness, and so did he.

The rest of the day was spent like this, holding each other, kissing and whispering sweet nothings. He smelled of fresh grass and tasted of the blueberries he had eaten. All youth and carelessness. All tenderness and respect, never trying to be possessive.

When you went back to the farm, you hoped you managed to behave like nothing had happened in the mountain, but you soon didn’t try to hide your glances and smiles, for he didn’t bother to hide his. You crossed Gizur’s look, and the man winked playfully, glad to see both his son and you happy. Yet you blushed when you overheard Rannveig scolding his son in a low voice, demanding him not to give you more than kisses before you were married, for you were not a mere concubine.

You went to bed as usual, feeling uneasy when you took in your surroundings and recognised the _dyngja_ , with looms standing against the walls, weights pulling the strands of wool taut.

The door opened and a lithe form entered, holding a grease lamp in a hand.

“It’s me, flower, I couldn’t resist to be with you.”

Már.

You frowned at him.

“What are you doing here?”

He came silently and crouched next to you.

“You shouldn’t –“

His fingers on your mouth shushed you, quickly replaced with his lips.

“Just a few kisses”, he breathed, and you cupped his face in your hands to bring his lips to yours, want setting in your belly. You kissed him harder, licking his lower lip, and he responded, parting his lips and slithering his tongue into your mouth, climbing in the bed, his hands roaming all over your body.

He _purred_. Just like - no. It was impossible.

_Oh, tófa, I missed you._

When you heard _his_ low, dark voice, the want set you afire and you opened your eyes, searching for the evidence of what you knew. _Loki_ was in your bed. Már’s blond hair had turned black, blue eyes were now green – or rather black, too, their irises dilated with lust. You clutched to his broad shoulders as he settled above you, making room for him between your legs, squirming as he hiked your nightshift above your legs. He told you how pretty you were. His hands stroke your inner thighs and the skin of your buttocks, and all you could do was boldly, wantonly pulling the laces of his trousers loose and freeing him, taking his member in hand and stroking it too.

He positioned himself, the head of his cock sliding between your wet folds, and you were about to beg him.

_When the farmboy fucks you, remember I was your first._

He entered swiftly, almost brutally, satisfying your burning need of him.

It made you gasp.

It woke you up.

It was only a dream.

You sat in your bed, panting and confused, your heart pounding furiously in your chest and a cold sweat gathering on your skin.

By the Gods, it all seemed so real, so vivid. Your sex pulsed and its folds felt sore. Pleasantly sore, swollen with desire and – effort?

You fumbled around in your bed, finding the mattress empty and cold. It confirmed what you knew.

It was just a dream. It wasn’t real.

You curled yourself into a ball, facing the wall, listening to the snores of the sleepers in the room, feeling exhausted but too afraid to snooze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A _skúta_ is a word used in Icelandic sagas, referring to a small fishing boat.


	8. Chapter 8

One chilly morning of the last days of Haustmánuður, you were woken by a sharp knock at the door of the _dyngja_. It was Freyja’s day, as it suited for weddings.

Rannveig had decided you would be separated from Már a few days before the ceremony, and so you didn’t enter the _skali_ anymore. You had stayed and slept in the _dyngja_ with the women of your family since they made the trip from Eyjolfsstaðir. You had been so happy to see Eydís and Halldora again, and the old woman had hugged you tightly, laughing through her tears. Katla and Thordís had stayed back, for Katla had given birth to a little girl and Thordís kept the farm with the thralls.

Your brothers went along very well with your new family, chatting merrily with Gizur, Már and his cousins, giving a hand with the farm and practicing _glíma_ together during the day, reciting poetry in the evening. You had observed them from afar, and had caught a glimpse of your betrothed’s body. All spare, long muscles and pale skin. Still slender, as he was barely older than you, but promising to be truly beautiful in full adulthood.

You had kept being withdrawn with your father, though the ancient anger you felt had been tamed for a few weeks. He had looked at you with sadness.

_Let him have remorse. He was at fault._

Halldóra and Eydís gathered behind you as you exited and joined Rannveig, her sister Gróa and their daughters. Sígridr, Már’s sister, was married to the Goði who would perform the ceremony. The women led you to the bath house for your ritual washing. It consisted in a single room with a large wooden tub in the centre of it. They had begun filling it with water, and were taking hot stones out of the fire to put them in the tub, where they fell sizzling and producing steam. You unbraided your hair and stripped, standing naked before the tub. Rannveig stared at you, her eyes on your skin, your breasts, hips, thighs, and made an appreciative grunt.

“Have you lain with my son already, Ýrr?”

“No.”

You were now furiously blushing under her gaze. It was embarrassing to be examined like a mare.

“We just – kissed.”

And _caressed_ each other, but you wouldn’t confess about that.

They giggled.

“I think you will please him”, said Halldóra.

Rannveig grunted again, and gave you a smile.

“You are pretty, girl. And your hips show me you will give him children. Now get in the water.”

They washed you thoroughly from head to toe, then made you step out of the tug, and added more hot stones into the water to increase the steam. It was now as dense as a thick winter fog, if a winter fog could be hot. When they switched you with birch twigs, you bit your lips to endure it in perfect silence. Eydís grabbed the handle of a bucket.

“This is the last part. Are you ready?”

It was cold water, used to wash off your childhood and maidenhood along with your sweat, and close your skin, making you a fresh and reborn bride.

You nodded, preparing yourself as the old woman climbed on a stool behind you, unable to stiffen a loud gasp as she poured the cold water on your sweating skin.

The women laughed at your reaction, and you joined them, feeling relieved and – clean. Ready. Rannveig took a wooden bowl filled with aromatic dried grey grain, presenting it for you to smell. It was fragrant, flowery and strong. Something you had never smelled. Looking closer to it, you realised it was dried flowers, as small as grain, and you gave her a surprised yet pleased look.

“Gizur’s brother brought this back last year from his travels. He bought it to a merchant, and said it was cultivated in a Southern country. I kept it for my son’s bride.”

“Thank you”, you breathed, grateful for her motherly welcoming.

She took a handful of the dried flowers and rubbed your skin with them, deposing their scent on your body. She insisted on your armpits, shoulders, breasts, then went down to your hips, belly, and insisted on your rear and the inside of your thighs.

Then she wiped the remaining flowers of your skin, and helped Eydís with your dress. Rannveig’s embroidery was a magnificent work that showed her mastery of this art. Halldóra adorned your flowing hair with the last heather flowers of the season before Eydís held out your bridal crown.

“This is your mother’s _kranken_. Be proud to wear it, for you are a most beautiful bride.”

It was a silver circlet adorned with crystal rocks, and draped in green and red silk cords. Corncobs had been weaved in the cords, as a symbol of fertility.

“It is precious to me”, you whispered.

You knew you wouldn’t keep it, for it was to be passed to your brothers’ daughters, but wearing something of your mother, whom you had never known, moved you deeply. You swallowed heavily as she placed it on your head.

When you finally went out of the bath house, the groom’s party was already waiting for you, along with Gizur and your father, next to the sacred closed small field where a boar was lazily laying in the sun.

“The weather is good. It is good omen”, commented Rannveig.

The lot of you walked to the group of men. The Goði, Guðbjörn, was waiting with them. You felt intimidated by all these people and bit your lips, casting your eyes down to hide your gaze behind your lids. Your father placed a sword in your hands: it was a fine blade he had taken in Friesland many years ago, when he made himself a Viking and partook raids during summer. You received the sword with both hands, and turned to Már, holding it out for him.

“Wear this blade as a sign of my love and trust, to defend our family and belongings.”

He took the blade and put it to his belt, then held another sword to you.

“Take this blade and give it to our first son, when he becomes a man.”

You picked the blade with trembling fingers, lifted it as a sign of respect then passed it to Eydís.

Then your father gave your dowry to Gizur, and Már gave you your _mundr_ , consisting in gold and silver coins, scarlet fabric and jewels, to garantee you would be regarded as a woman of your rank as well as to ensure you could come to a living, should he die young.

Then the assistance placed themselves in a circle around the Goði and the two of you. You swallowed hard as the Goði took your hand and placed it in Már’s, and cast a glance at him: he was staring at you, a smile on his lips, pride and warmth in his blue eyes. You couldn’t help blushing, and his smile widened.

The Goði tied your hands with a red cord, then called for the benevolence of Thor and Freyr, turning in the four directions.

No indulgence was to be expected from your dark God. Yet you felt a pang of pain for him, for he was never prayed to. He had been harsh, but not brutal. Possessive and demanding, but he had let you _chose_ to give yourself to him. Maybe – maybe…

The Goði addressed the both of you.

“Remember that your vows are not to be spoken lightly. Swear no words that you are unable or unwilling to keep, for your promises will create a bond greater than life itself.”

You stared at your father at these words, careful not to betray any emotion, and he had the good taste of looking ashamed, lowering his eyes.

Your guts churned. There was no time for doubts anymore. You had chosen to come here and wed the young man who held your hand. He was a good man. You could be happy here with him. You nodded along with your betrothed, and Guðbjörn recited vows you both obediently repeated. Gizur gave rings to exchange while a man brought the boar you had seen in the field. Its cry filled the air as it was slaughtered, and you did your best not to flinch as the Goði dipped twigs in the steaming blood and sprinkled it on your face as a favour of the Gods.

With a nod and a wink of the Goði, Már leaned upon you, lightly putting his hand on your elbow, and you tilted your face to meet his lips in a much shier and certainly more modest kiss than you had already shared with him, giggling against your husband’s mouth as loud cheers and clapping burst around you. His other hand went on your shoulder and he rotated you so that you faced the longhouse and his back was turned to it. Guðbjörn removed the silk cord that tied your hands and with an impish wink and smile, he cried, “Race!” Már spun and scuttled down to the house, the groom’s party with him.

“Cheater!” you laughed, and lifting your dress, you ran after him, surrounded by the women. Everyone was happily laughing, and you felt joyful at once, too. You didn’t remember Björn’s wedding very well, apart from the race that had been your favourite part when you were twelve. Your long dress got in the way as you ran, and you lifted your skirts higher, past your knees. You turned your head, sure to have caught the glimpse of raven hair above the crowd, and slowed down to look better, but it was just an Irish thrall of Gizur’s. Halldóra grasped your wrist, and you resumed your running with her. As you made it to the longhouse, the men were already there, Már being loudly clapped in the back by his cousins and friends who commented his new sword planted in the beam. “Lucky man! A long a fruitful marriage!” They made crude comments, bursting with laughter, and you giggled with them and the other people for it was not offensive. It was just about enjoying each other and bringing joy in your couple.

Your new husband scooped you in his arms so you could pass the threshold without tripping on it, which would have been a very bad omen, then deposited you next to the seat you would both occupy for the feast. Once he had settled in it, you sat in his lap as expected and he circled your waist with his arms. At first you found it embarrassing, and sat upright. But as all the guests filled the longhouse and Már spoke in your ear, you managed to relax and lean back against his chest, enjoying his warmth through your wedding clothes.

Before the beginning of the feast, Gizur brought a jar of a strong, dark mead, specially brewed for the occasion, and put it on the table before you. He filled a drinking horn with the odorant liquid and held it out to his son. Már took long gulps, and when it was your turn to drink, completing your vows, you emptied the horn, tasting the rich, heavy flavour of honey and yeast on your tongue. It tasted like summer, it smelled like sunbathed heather, gulp after gulp, rich and thick and full of promises. As you lifted the empty horn on display under the cheering and clapping of the family, neighbours and guests, you were laughing and beaming.

“Don’t get too drunk”, your husband chuckled in your ear. “I’d rather you don’t sleep tonight.”

You giggled more, and spent the rest of the day enjoying the roasted pork, drinking, dancing, until it was late in the night and the women who had bathed and dressed you in the morning gathered once more around you.

“It is time we prepare the bride for her wedding night.”

You bit your lips, turning your head to look at Már, and your blood raced in your veins at his expression: his smiled had fallen and he was watching you expectantly. Hungrily. A shiver coursed through your body and you followed the group of women to the _dyngja_.

Slaves had been working to transform the women’s house into a nuptial bedroom. The looms had been removed and a large bed covered with furs and sheepskins had been placed against a wall. There was also a table filled with food and mead, as you were supposed to be secluded three days with your husband.

Eydís removed the bridal crown from your head, then the women helped you strip, while one opened the covers for you to slip inside the bed. You sat, propped on pillows, and drew the covers on your chest. The old servant arranged your hair around your shoulders.

“You are beautiful, my sweet girl.”

You smiled, intimidated. It was weird to be with other people, yet you knew your first coupling had to be witnessed to make sure the marriage was legal.

She kissed your forehead, then straightened back and nodded to Rannveig. Your mother-in-law opened the door, revealing Már who was waiting outside, lighted up by the torches his friends and cousins were carrying. They entered and you clutched at the covers tighter, averting your eyes from them.

This felt – _wrong_. Far too intimidating.

When you had given yourself to Loki – when he made _love_ to you, it was intimate.

Now you felt exposed. Frightened. You heard them talking and laughing, but you couldn’t focus on what they were saying for your heart was beating furiously in your chest, as if trying to escape, and the sound of your blood filled your ears.

Your husband quickly took off his clothes and you didn’t even look at him, feeling sick because of the presence of the others. When he entered the bed, you felt grateful that he didn’t tear the covers out of your hands to let his friends have a good look. He said something you didn’t proceed, and you heard the door open and footsteps walk away. You shyly cast a glance in the room, finding now the only six witnesses legally required, Rannveig and Eydís amongst them.

You shut your eyes tight when he leaned and kissed your shoulders, trying not to flinch under his touch.

“Please”, you whispered, “make them leave.”

“I can’t until I haven’t taken you”, he whispers back. “Because there won’t be blood.”

His words weighed on you like lead.

You forced yourself to inhale and looked him in the eye. Pleadingly.

“Can you ask them to go, once you’ve – penetrated me?”

He swallowed hard and nodded, not easier than you.

You pressed your lips in what had to look like a smile and kissed him, sinking in the bed, laying on your back. You opened your legs to make room for him, as you had done with Loki – in the cave and in your dreams – unless you didn’t feel wet and ready to take him. He sat on his heels between your knees and caressed your thighs clumsily with calloused hands as you watched him. He was skinny yet muscled, definitely having not reached full adulthood.

And he was almost hard already.

“Is it your first time?” you breathed, unsure.

You didn’t feel easy, and neither did he, obviously.

“No. But it’s… different.”

You nodded.

It was different to perform an act that ensured the legality of the union. That bonded not just you to him, but your family to his. It was different to be watched. To do it as if on command.

You caressed his arms.

“Kiss me?”

Your voice sounded weak and pathetic. Afraid. He bent his body over you compliantly and met your lips, gentle at first, then hurried, and you took one of his hands to put it on your breasts as you stroked his broad back with your other hand.

You closed your eyes to remember the moments you had spent with him that had let you panting and wanting.

His hand descended from your nipple to your sex, sliding a finger between your folds, and he groaned. He was inexperienced, and a bit too rough. So, shutting your eyes tighter, you thought about your divine lover, of his skills and dark whispers that made your skin and blood burn with lust. _Wild tófa, so wet for me._ You thought about your dreams, for you had not welcomed him just once in your sleep, afraid at first, soon longing for his imaginary visits.

Már’s cock pressed at your entrance, and you obediently lifted your hips to allow his passage. You were not totally ready and the stretch made you wince and whimper in discomfort, although he groaned and released a shaky breath. He withdrew, then surged more, and you hooked a leg on his hips, willing your muscles to relax. When he was fully burried inside you, he gave a few thrusts and stopped to watch you. You smiled encouragingly, though you didn’t feel much apart from a deepening hollowness in your chest.

“Leave”, he said aloud, speaking to the witnesses.

His mother made an indignant comment, and the covers slipped as he straightened back, exposing his back and your bare legs. You blushed hard at a giggled comment made by a male voice, hoping Már’s broad shoulders could hide your chest.

“Is your sword sheathed already, cousin?”

He barely turned his head to them, speaking in a cold, authoritative tone.

“It is. Now leave and let me do as I please with my bride.”

He was sitting on his heels, his back straight and chin high, holding your hips, still inside you. When you heard them walk and the door opened and closed, he turned to check they had left, then looked back to you with a relieved sigh. He was tall and looked almost shy above you, his chest heaving, bringing your gaze to the hard muscles of his chest and belly. He was beautiful, you had to admit.

“Thank you”, you breathed.

He kissed you more, and you gathered him in your arms, tilting your hips to encourage him, and soon he thrust back into you.

“Be gentle with me”, you pleaded. He grunted, making efforts to restrain himself and be tender. You focused on him, on his soft skin, his muscles under your fingers, his scent of hay and thyme, and your body responded, producing slick to ease his movements. He must feel it, for he thrust harder with a groan. You were not uncomfortable anymore, and pleasure was slightly building inside your core, though you didn’t feel like you were about to lose your mind. He soon drove faster and harder inside you, panting and groaning. You closed your eyes to focus of the little pleasure you felt, willing it to expanse in your belly, but he soon stiffened above you with a horse groan, thrusting a few more times as he emptied himself.

You felt defeated as he collapsed upon you, his face in the crook of your neck, breathing hard. Swallowing your surging tears, you turned your head to the wall, desperately trying to think of something else.

“It’ll be better next time.”

“Yes”, you submissively answered, and he kissed your cheek. You closed your arms around him, holding him tight against your chest, hoping he would stay here long enough for you to compose yourself and hide your sadness.

“By the Norns” snarled a low, dark voice, “what did they do to you, _tófa_? Where’s your spirit?”

You pushed Már and sat back with a yelp, your newlywed husband almost jumping to sit in the bed too.

Here _he_ was, casually sprawled on a bench against the opposite wall, legs aggressively spread and back leaning against the planks covering the peat. He was wearing the divine attire you had already seen on him, black and green leather, and he held his head so high with disdain that his gaze was settled on you through half-lidded eyes. Your heart fluttered at his sight. He had another kind of beauty. A surreal, unearthly beauty. Realization washed over you. You had _missed_ him. His absence had been the cause of your sorrow these past weeks. And here he was, _now_ , on your very wedding night. Too late.

His mouth moved, and you hesitated to see it as a smile or a sneer. Likely the latter, as you knew how cruel he could be.

“You are most unwelcome here”, said Már. “No one called for your benevolence today.”

“Are you sure?”

He stood, straight, tall and imposing. His eyes hard with jealousy and power.

“Your bride looks doleful.”

You cast your head down at his comment, attempting to hide your face with your hair. Your young husband brushed your long mane out of your cheek in a kind and attentive gesture.

“Ýrr, say something to me. Did I hurt you?”

You only could shake your head, choking on restrained tears.

 _I’m not the only girl to weep during her wedding night. I’ll survive this_ , you thought.

“Can you start a marriage with such a disaster, boy? You didn’t even made your wife come.”

You felt Már’s tension at Loki’s sneer. You knew he hated the God. And the God was jealous of him. Loki took a slow step, then another, like a wolf on the prowl. You lifted your eyes on him and your breath caught in your throat as he unclasped his leather jacket.

“Maybe I can teach you a few tips?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically smut. I should be ashamed.

The God was standing at the end of the marital bed, a sly smile on his lips, his green eyes gleaming with mischief and amusement.

In the corner of your eye, you saw Már turning to you and staring at you, but you found yourself unable to tear your gaze from the tall, dark being in front of you, your mouth dry at the mere idea of his proposition.

“No”, said your husband.

Loki gave a low chuckle.

“This is not yours to decide, boy.”

His tone was cold and condescending. His eyes flickered on Már, all playfulness replaced with a cold stare. Cold green, just like frost on grass.

“Why would she –“

“Your laws accept that she divorces if she’s unsatisfied, do they? Well, I can very much say she _is_ unsatisfied, right now.”

You blushed hard, your face burning under his words. He was right and yet, it shouldn’t have been said like that.

“Is it another of your tricks?”

The God chuckled again.

“You are a brave young man, bold enough to speak to me like this. Or a reckless idiot, one could say.”

“Loki, please”, you cut. “He’s just jealous.”

“Oh, is he? Jealous of me? How preposterous. I still fail to see why you chose this life, sweetling.”

You swallowed and took a deep breath. You had to tell him, it was now or never.

“I know my place. You are a God, I’m a mortal. I’ll be old in twenty years, dead within thirty, while you’ll still be the same in a thousand years. I can only be grateful for your turning your eye on me.” 

You spoke with a sad smile, and your heart painfully swelled as his composed façade fell.

“You know I’m right”, you added. “Don’t lie to me.”

“You are right”, he whispered. “But this isn’t a farewell. You will see me again.”

Már gave a frustrated sigh.

“No. I forbid it.”

Once more, Loki’s laugh echoed in the _dyngja_. He was watching the young man, a condescending smile on his lips.

“You don’t understand, boy. You don’t even listen. I understand you don’t want to share your wife: after all, I don’t want to share my precious _tófa_ , either.”

“She chose to wed me. She came willingly with me after _you_ more or less abducted her.”

You put a hand on Már’s forearm. He was being insolent – and wrong, for you had knowingly followed the Trickster God – and Loki wouldn’t tolerate it. He was glaring at the young, blonde man with a cruel smile.

“She didn’t chose you, boy”, he snarled. “She rather resigned herself, like so many women on Miðgarð.”

You bit your lips. He was right. A quick glance from your husband was enough to convince him that the God said the truth. Loki took off his leather jacket.

“Now, boy, I believe you’ve fucked someone before, have you?”

“Yes.”

“And whom, pray tell?”

“Slaves.”

Loki rolled his eyes.

“Oh, dear. Did you wed a slave? Do you intend to fuck her like a slave? By the Norns, boy, this is the wife you’ve been coveting for a year, she’ll be the richest woman in the district, she deserves better, so I suggest you put your pride aside and pay close attention.”

His cold gaze lingered a few moments on the young man.

“Consider it my wedding gift to you.”

His voice was full of smugness, yet you felt your nipples harden as a shiver coursed through you at his words.

He sat on the bed, next to you, and took your hand in his long, cool fingers.

“First thing”, he said with a quick look to your husband, “is you have to tell her how pretty she is. Did you tell her today?”

“No. But I thought it.”

Loki’s fingers snaked around and up your arm, stroking your bare skin.

“Well, it was a mistake.”

His eyes never left you.

“You were beautiful, sweetling, in this fine yellow dress. Your flowing hair, particularly, was enticing. But, pray tell, where is the green silk I sent to you?”

You gulped and cast your eyes down, but he caught your chin between two fingers to make you look at him.

“I didn’t keep it.”

He arched an eyebrow in an elegant, inquisitive way.

“Oh. Why is that?”

“It was – painful.”

He stroked your cheekbone in a soothing way.

“I also thought that Már’s mother wouldn’t like me to keep a reminder of you.”

He slid just next to you and kissed your temple.

“And you were right”, he whispered. “My sweet _tófa_ , cunning and willing to survive.”

He wrapped you in his arms, and you shamelessly leaned against him, circling his neck with yours, revelling in his embrace and the contact of his body against yours.

“I don’t know what she did with it. I asked her to have it burnt or thrown out in the sea.”

“Sshhh, sweetling, don’t torment yourself with this for now.”

He kissed you slowly, tenderly, then laid you down on the straw mattress before lifting his gaze to the young man next to you.

“Kiss her nice, take your time. You know she likes it.”

Már bent down and you allowed him to kiss you, opening your mouth when he deepened the kiss, probing with his tongue. He has already kissed you like this, but not tonight. Had he been too hurried? Had he been troubled by the wedding witnesses? You slid your arms around his shoulders, enjoying the feeling of his soft skin under your fingers.

Loki laid flush against you and you moved one arm to let him rest his head on your shoulder, sighing as he kissed and licked your neck. You had missed this, you realized. How he enjoyed your neck, always finding sensitive spots. One of his hands snaked up to your breasts and stroked your skin with featherlike touches, and you whimpered in Már’s mouth.

“You smell so good, sweetling. Did the women rub you with _lavandula_?”

“Dried fragrant flowers”, you panted.

He grunted in approval.

“A precious gift, in this region.”

A warm hand found your other breast. Már’s hand. He mimicked Loki’s caresses, stroking and fondling your breast, and your breath hitched when they lightly pinched and rolled your nipples between their fingers.

“See how sensitive she is? Now let’s try something else.”

He went down to your chest and took one nipple between his lips, rolling his tongue around the hardened bud. Your husband did the same and your legs spread open as you moaned in pleasure. Having both of them dedicated to your body was – you failed to find words when cool fingers brushed your lower folds.

“Her pleasure is more important than yours”, purred the dark God, and he kissed and licked your skin down to your sex.

You felt your husband turning his head to watch him.

You mewled and shut your eyes as a warm tongue licked your slit. Már abandoned your breast and propped himself on one elbow, watching Loki with fascination. The God lifted his gaze to you, then to him, and smirked.

“This”, he instructed, softly circling the erect nub above your folds, “is her most important part. Worship it and she’ll open to you like a flower.”

He resumed his ministrations and as you began to moan and undulate your hips under his kissing and licking, he made way to Már. Your husband tentatively licked and kissed your clit, and, encouraged by the sigh he elicited from your throat, he eagerly lapped you, making you cry out.

Loki purred in appreciation and went back to your lips, kissing you deeply, exploring your mouth with his tongue.

Their combined caresses were wonderful – and yet not enough. You wanted – no, needed – one of them between your legs.

“Please”, you whined, opening your legs wider, and your divine lover let out a velvety chuckle.

Már grunted and started to crawl above you, but Loki stopped him.

“No. Make her come first.”

“With my mouth?”

Loki let a frustrated, impatient sigh.

“Yes. Start at the bottom, taste her.”

Már cast a glance at you, then bent down, and you mewled as his lips and tongue found your entrance.

“Mmmh, you make the most delectable sounds, _tófa_ ”, he purred in your ear, and his praise made your inner walls clench around nothing.

Pleasure was building in your core, like a tension demanding to be released. Your back arched under Már’s ministrations, and you shut your eyes tight, panting and moaning.

“Now use your fingers, boy.”

You cried out as a long finger slipped inside you. You craved this, and the feeling was _delightful_.

“Add a second finger.”

You cried once more at the sensation. It felt somehow wrong to be used like this between the two of them – but it felt so _good_. A low, dark, smooth chuckle rang in your ear.

“That’s right. Faster.”

As Már obeyed Loki’s instructions, you tensed more and more, begging for release.

“Now, suckle.”

Hot lips closed on the erect nub, and a wave of pleasure _crashed_ upon you, your back arching totally off of the mattress, your insides gripping your husband’s fingers, a strangled moan echoing in your throat as you managed not to howl for everyone to hear.

Leaving you almost no respite, Már straightened, sitting on his heels, and gripping your hips he dragged you to him until his cock rested against your flesh. Your bottom was resting on his thighs and the position forced your back to arch. As you looked at him, a shiver of anticipation ran through you, his expression of pure lust taking you aback. He gripped his length and teased your opening with its head, smirking at your gasp. He entered you with brows furrowed, groaning through gritted teeth, never leaving his grip on your hips, and you yelped at the feeling of him, stretching you once more and sliding against your sensitive walls.

He withdrew slowly, slowly, torturing you, only to snap back hard into you, making you cry out again. His eyes flickered to the dark God lain next to you with his hands on your breasts, their expression one of dark possessiveness.

“I don’t need” – _thrust_ – “my wife’s lover” – _thrust_ – “to fuck her" - _thrust - "_ properly.”

His dark hiss, his grip, his jealousy, it all turned you on, setting your body aflame, pleasure running through your veins like a wild river. When one of his hands snaked to circle your clit with his thumb, you squealed, writhing under him as a second orgasm washed over you. He thrust harder and faster, his frantic rhythm prolonging your ecstasy, and quickly joined you, emptying himself for the second time with a long hoarse groan.

He collapsed next to you, breathing hard, kissing your temple, and you hummed in satisfaction.

“Thank you”, you whispered, turning to him and lightly stroking his shoulder.

Loki’s hand stiffened on your hip. You could _feel_ anger and jealousy radiating from him. He kissed your nape, resuming his caresses on your skin.

“Well done, boy.”

Már grunted in approval, his eyes closed. Loki pressed himself behind you, rolling his hips to rub his hard member against your buttocks, and you gasped at the feeling of his bare skin. When had he undressed?

“Do you mind if I take a turn?”

Your eyes widened in shock and surprise, and Már’s eyes shot open, watching you.

“Ýrr might be my wife, but she’s up to decide. Ask her.”

Loki groaned, obviously irritated at your husband’s insolence.

“What do you say, _tófa_? Do you want me?”

“Yes”, you breathed. “Yes. As a farewell.”

“Oh, really?” he sneered. “In that case, I won’t be gentle, so you’ll remember me. On your hands and knees.”

Heat bloomed once more in your nether parts at his words. They sounded like a threat and yet, you knew you could trust him.

“Don’t hurt her”, Már warned, his tone low.

Loki chuckled cruelly.

“Oh, don’t command me, boy. You are no bull, nothing but a lamb.”

He settled between your legs and grabbed you, flipping you on your stomach, and brought your hips up, offering your entrance to him. He aligned his cock and entered you slowly. A long gasp escaped your throat. He was thicker than Már, and your sex was already over-sensitive. This new position made you feel every ridge of his length against your walls and gave him a deeper access, making you moan loudly before long.

He withdrew though, eliciting a frustrated whimper from you.

“Straddle him”, he said, his voice lower than usual.

You clumsily moved above Már’s thighs, and your young husband helped you, gently stroking your hips and kissing you. Loki snaked his arms around you from behind and slammed into your cunt, making you yelp. You felt trapped between them, thoroughly used by the God, kissed by your husband, and it drove you mad with arousal and pleasure. Loki caged you in his strong arms and straightened, holding you flush against him, pounding into you.

“Sweet little _tófa_ ”, he grunted in your ear, “you feel so good.”

You wanted to kiss him. As you turned your face to his, he captured your lips with his, delving his tongue in your mouth. One of his hands gripped your hip, his other arm was snaked across your torso, the hand possessively resting on your throat. Emboldened by your activities of the night, you raised an arm to his head, grabbed his hair and pulled it to keep him against you. He groaned loudly and fucked you even harder, seemingly losing control.

"You're beautiful", whispered Már. A hand stroked your belly, the thumb pressing on your clit. Már’s thumb, you could say, for Loki’s hands were still holding you tight. The mere thought of it made you clench hard around Loki’s girth and see stars. The orgasm blinded you as he rutted into you, searching his own release and coming with a roar.

He accompanied you as you collapsed on the mattress next to Már, and laid down behind you, kissing your shoulder.

“You should clean yourself and empty your bladder, sweetling. Just to avoid the newlyed’s disease.”

“I can’t move”, you whimpered.

He chuckled smugly.

“Be brave.”

You moved with a whine and did as he told, welcoming the cool wet tissue on your sore folds. When you came back to bed, Már was almost sleeping, struggling to listen to the God.

“The silk is in your mother’s chest, boy. You will take it back from your mother and store it in Ýrr’s chest. Consider it as a part of her _mundr_ and keep it for her daughter.”

“Yes”, he mumbled, his eyelids fluttering with slumber.

You crawled back between them and your husband curled around you from behind as you rested your head on Loki’s shoulder. The dark God kissed your forehead, lightly playing with your hair.

“Thank you”, you whispered, and a slight smile pulled on his lips.

He sighed.

“Are you sure you want –“

“Yes”, you interrupted. “Let me live a mortal life. This is my choice.”

He gave you a painful look, his clear green eyes reflecting his hurt and – rejection? You swallowed hard, feeling guilty.

“I will always cherish you. You will be the God I’ll pray to. Every sacrifice I’ll make will be yours.”

You stroked his high cheekbones with the tips of your fingers, and he caught your wrist, schooling his features.

“As I said before”, he murmured with a sly smile, “this is not a farewell. This was my wedding gift, not a parting gift. We will see each other again.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year to you all! May it be better than 2020.  
> Make projects, take care of yourself, love yourself.  
> This is the end of this story. Thanks to all of you for reading and your kind comments and support.  
> Enjoy!

As you combed the silky hair of your daughter, smiling with pride and motherly love, you couldn’t help your heart swelling at the memories that were filling your mind.

“What are you thinking of, _móðir_?” Hrafna asked with her smooth, velvety voice.

Your daughter. Always keen and observant. So clever, just like her father.

“Your birth.”

Her birth. Their birth. For you had born twins in the first days of summer after your wedding. In the first labour pains you had begged to send for Eydís. Rannveig had retorted that she would get there too late, but you didn’t care. You wanted her by your side, during the hours of labour, walking around the _dyngja_ , supported by the women of the family, for your belly was so huge and you were so in pain you fought to keep balance. After one day and a half of labour during which Rannveig had to oust a very worried Már out of the women’s house, you had lain down, feeling exhausted, knowing that you wouldn’t manage to survive, resigned to your death if it could end your suffering.

Eydís had finally arrived, along with a woman you didn’t know. A woman wearing a blue dress and a crown of greyish braids. A midwife and a _seiðrkona_ , she had called her, but you didn’t catch her name. You were now feeling so, so tired, lying on a bed, unable to walk anymore, breathing with difficulty.

_“The girl is beyond exhausted”, she said, and you could hear in her gruff voice that something was amiss._

_“I want to see my child” you murmured._

_She crouched next to you and gave you a motherly smile._

_“I’m going to help you, my dear.”_

_As soon as she had put her hands on your contracting womb, warmth spread through you, comforting you._

_“It’s alright”, she said with a smile. “They’re strong and safe.”_

_“They?” asked Eydís._

_“Twins. Our young lady here likes hard work, as it seems.”_

_She fumbled with her satchel and took a small glass vial. Pulling he cork, she held it to your mouth._

_“Drink.”_

_You vaguely wondered what it was, but you obeyed, swallowing the bitter liquid._

_“Who are you?” asked Rannveig in a haughty tone._

_The woman straightened back, and from your mattress, she seemed impossibly tall._

_“I’m the one who’s going to save her, if you’ll let me work.”_

_She sounded even haughtier than Rannveig. Had you not been so tired, you could have giggled. Then she sat on the edge of your bed, and laid a cool hand on your forehead, sweeping away the strands of sweaty hair that clung to your skin._

_“I’m sent by a friend of yours, who dearly cares for you.”_

_Your heart clenched. Was it possible – Where was_ He _?_

_“Shhh. Keep quiet. The labour pains are going to pause for a few hours. Your babies are safe. You are going to sleep a while, and then, when you’re rested, we will see together that they are born and you are all safe and sound.”_

_And just as she said, a few hours later, you were kneeling in fresh straw, supported by Eydís and Rannveig, the woman kneeling in front of you, as your water broke and you felt a slight relief as the warm liquid flooded between your thighs._

_And after a few minutes, with a few more efforts and a rough cry, she received a tiny, mewling thing in her hands._

_“A boy.”_

_And you laughed in joy, along with the two women next to you._

_The girl was born soon after her brother, calm and observant._

_After the delivery, as you were laying in your bed and the babies were suckling at your breasts, she let Már enter._

_He named the boy Thórir, after his older brother, and the girl Hrafna, after his grandmother, saying the name would suit her because of her dark hair._

“I nearly died that night”, you said, more to yourself than to Hrafna.

You had understood later, when you had recovered your wits, that _He_ had sent Eir herself to deliver your babies and save you. And this, you had never spoken of but with Eydís, a few months later, for the old servant had stayed with you in Hvalfjörður after the twins were born.

The girl made a humming sound. Was it of approval? Of pity? She was often hard to read.

“But your other deliveries have been easy. When you gave birth to my siblings, it has always been quick and seemingly easy.”

You smiled.

“It has. I am lucky.”

“Some say you are friends with the Æsir.”

“I know what they say”, you answered with an uncanny smile, and she turned back, letting you comb her hair again.

Your memories flew next to Hrafna’s first steps, on a dark winter day, to go and see Thórir. It was in the _skali_. They had been crawling for a few week, and you spent most of your time eyeing them, terrified that they could fall in the fire pit. The mere idea of your precious children hurt in any manner made your stomach churn. Thórir had managed to walk a few days before his sister. The girl kept crawling, whining with frustration. And one day, Már had lifted her, settled her on her feet in the middle of the room and told her to go and see her twin brother. She had craned her neck to look at him, grave and silent. Then she had taken a step, and another, and another, and Thórir and her had both laughed as she reached her sibling. You had cried with pride and love.

A few days later, they took their first steps in the snow, babbling curiously in their own language.

That day, as the sun came out from behind the clouds and shone on them, you had been struck by a truth you had always known and never admitted. They were twins, so alike, though with his golden hair and her black curls, they were like the Sun and the Moon. Thórir was undoubtedly Már’s son, but in the sun, Hrafna’s eyes looked more _green_ than blue. Something you hadn’t noticed before, as her eyes hadn’t taken their definitive shade – and after, in the dim light of the _skali_ during the long winter, it had been difficult to see. Or maybe you had seen it and didn’t want to admit the truth.

And suddenly, looking into her eyes, you had remembered the last visit of the God, during the Jól night, in the early times of your wedding – and pregnancy. Feeling nauseated by the odours of roasted meet and beer, you had exited the _skali_ in need of fresh air. All day, during the celebrations and sacrifices to propitiate Freyr, you had silently prayed to Loki, dedicating _Him_ drops of skyr or beer that you discretely let fall on the floor. It was snowing outside, so you had taken just a few steps to the corner of the house. _He_ was there, as if waiting for you, and _He_ had gathered you in _His_ arms, almost crushing you with _His_ strength, silent and breathing heavily. When _He_ had trailed a hand to your hips, _He_ had flinched, and set _His_ fingers on your belly. And _His_ breath had stopped.

It had been your last encounter with _Him_ , and few had been said.

And looking at your daughter, you had remembered _His_ words in the cave, that had filled you with fear. Did you have something to fear from this innocent little girl tottering and babbling in the snow?

You still prayed to _Him_ in festivals, mentally talked to _Him_ , and thought of _Him_ every day. You often would dream of _Him_ at night, waking sweaty and panting under the force of the pleasure _He_ gave you in your dreams. It was comforting, and yet you missed _His_ bodily presence.

You had been living a happy life though, filled with love and joy. Már had proven to be a very good husband, loving and caring. He never talked about the God, but he hadn’t forgotten _His_ lessons, either. And you had carried two more sons and another daughter, the youngest boy being born four years ago, never losing children as it was so frequent in other families. Your lands had been quite fertile, and your livestock kept from diseases. You had been truly blessed, and you were truly grateful for you knew who you owed this wealth and happiness. Gone was the feeling you had had as a young girl, that you would be considered as a whore if the God favoured you. Indeed, _He_ had been more than generous in exchange of your loyalty and love. Because you loved _Him_ , though you had understood it after _He_ had left on that dark night of Jól. And those who had known of the deal between Eyjolfr and the Trickster God never gave a second thought about the increasing fortune and influence of your family.

 _“Móðir”_ , said Hrafna. “I think you are done with my hair.”

You took a breath in, lifting your head to take a look around you. The other women were silently observing you in the dim light of the fire and grease lamps inside the _dyngja_. But none of them dared saying anything, for they were used to your silence and deep thoughts. Melancholy, they called it, murmuring amongst them. It made you smile. You had experienced melancholy, and you were not feeling so sad than you had after you had given your maidenhood to _Him_ , after you had felt _He_ had betrayed your trust and taken advantage of your naïveté. No, it was more of an uninterrupted train of thoughts, often linked to _Him_. But it was not sad, rather appeased.

You took Rannveig’s _kranken_ , decorated with red and green silk cords and dried corncobs kept after the last harvest, just as your own bridal crown, sixteen years ago, and deposited it on the crown of her hair. Then she stood from the stool she was sitting on, and smoothed her dress.

She was stunning.

“No one has ever worn a dress as beautiful as yours”, said Halldóra, who had come for the celebration. “Your _móðir_ has made you a most precious gift.”

“Let us go outside to see how it looks in the light”, you said merrily, setting a heavy woollen cloak lined with fur on her shoulders.

She walked regally before you, tall, slim, and haughty. She had always been proud, but this past months, she had developed a tendency to disdain. It had led her to choose her husband by herself, for instance. Már, had he been still alive, wouldn’t have tolerated it. But he had been killed by his bull a few months before, and Thórir had made himself a Viking and had left with his uncle when she announced that she wanted to wed Stigándi Sigurðarson, a young chief of a Northern district. A man from a wealthy and renowned family, with a comely face, nonetheless. A man who was ambitious, but also very well-versed in law. And the girl had got what she wanted, as always. It was a crisp day of the beginning of winter. It had snowed the day before, but this morning, the clouds had opened and let large patches of sunrays flow with light.

The green silk shone nicely in the sunlight. The fabric hugged her slender frame, and with her flowing black hair, green eyes and high cheekbones, she truly looked like a semi-goddess.

 _Look at her_ , you thought. _Look at your daughter. See the beauty you have sired._

Had it not been what _He_ had instructed on your wedding night? _Keep the silk for her daughter._ For _His_ daughter. Even though _He_ hadn’t known it, back at that time.

Your heart swelled again with love, and you took a deep inhale, positively beaming, to tame your emotions. Surrounded by his brothers, cousins and friends, Stigándi looked totally bewitched by his bride. How could he not be? She was the most beautiful girl in the country.

Thórir took on the duty that should have been performed by his father. He handed Gizur’s sword to his sister so that she could offer it to her betrothed, then received the brideprice. A cold wind blew from the East, and you turned your head in its direction, spotting a rainbow, feeling hope.

A rainbow always made you hope that _He_ would come and see you. Hadn’t _He_ said that you would see each other again? In sixteen years, you had seen _Him_ one single time, during this dark night of Jól, when _He_ had felt you were pregnant. You remembered all too well the long look of disbelief and alarm he had given you, as the moonlight reflected on the snow.

“Ýrr”, a soft voice said as a hand pressed your shoulder.

You went out of your daydreaming to discover Halldóra who was staring at you with concern, her younger daughter at her side.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course”, you smiled, and you meant it.

“You didn’t listen when they spoke their vows. You always seem so… withdrawn in your thoughts.”

You smiled softly.

“I suppose I am” you said, very well aware that you sometimes drowned yourself in memories or prayers to _Him_. “Do you enjoy yourself, my sweet?” you asked the girl.

“Yes, aunt!” she answered, beaming and clapping hands.

“Then be ready to run with the bride.”

“But it’s unfair! The men always win.”

You laughed and sent her to the race towards the _skali_ all the same.

A childish laugh echoed behind you. Már’s laugh. Your youngest, born after his father’s death and named after him. Turning to him, you missed a heartbeat at seeing that he was holding _His_ hand and was leading _Him_ towards you.

“By the Æsir”, muttered Halldóra, “what is he doing here?”

You stood silent, frozen, watching _Him_. _He_ was walking with your son, wearing black trousers and boots, a green tunic and a green cloak, _His_ dark hair whirling in the wind. As _He_ approached, _His_ smile changed from carefree to guarded, _His_ green eyes fixed on you, a slight frown between _His_ brows.

“Hello, Ýrr.”

“Here you are, Loki”, you greeted casually, as if _He_ had left a few days ago. “I’m pleased to see you again.”

 _His_ lips curled in a warmer smile.

“This young man invited me to join the feast”, _He_ said.

Oh. How you had missed His dark voice, practically a purr.

“You have met Már”, you answered, taking the boy in your arms and sitting him on your right hip, and His smile fell as He understood you had named the boy after his late father. But you gave a bright smile to the boy and kissed him on the cheek.

“What a surprise”, said Halldóra. “I never thought I would see you again.”

“Come now, don’t be rude, sister”, you gently chastised her. “Loki and I have left on good terms.”

He gave her a lopsided grin and winked, and she shrugged in disdain. You were both considered matrons, now, equally wise and authoritative.

“Well, give me Már, I’ll join the others and let you talk with your… guest”, she huffed.

Loki and you watched them walk away. Then He turned to you, frowning, His gaze harder, almost wary.

“I’m happy to see you”, you offered.

“Oh, I bet you are. Always talking to me, never letting me a moment of peace.”

You frowned in dismay.

“What is it that you want, _tófa_? You made it very clear you didn’t want me, and I was courteous enough to accept your decision. But then, you acted like you regretted it while you lived a happy married life with another.”

“Now you’re being cruel”, you said in a sad, low tone. “I well knew I couldn’t expect anything else. I’m a mortal and you are a God. Gods never debase themselves with us mortals, they fuck us, that’s all. We mortals need to be very pragmatic, we have to survive. Don’t be resentful with me: have I not worshiped you all my life, as I promised?”

He sighed heavily.

“You have”, he whispered after a short silence.

“Everything I had, I sacrificed it to you. You had my virginity, my wedding night, my faithful love. Every _blót_ I celebrated was for you.”

You gave him a sad smile.

“I am happy to see you again. You are as handsome as in my memories.”

He gave you a thin smile.

“And you look –“

“Older than you. Tired and fat, I know.”

Your waist, after five children, wasn’t as slender as it used to be, your hips were wider, your breasts heavier. Your hands were damaged, reddish and chapped with years of work. Your hair was still thick however, and it made you proud, but it was now more grey than brown.

He frowned and chuckled bitterly.

“Well, you look older, but you also look the same. Your gaze is still the keen, cunning gaze of my _tófa_.”

You turned to the longhouse and made a gesture of invitation.

“Come, I want you to meet someone.”

He straightened, casting a quick glance to the house and the wedding party. You couldn’t decide if you read more curiosity or defiance in His clear green eyes.

You brushed your fingers against His.

“Please, my God. Only for a moment.”

He took a sharp inhale through His nose and gave a nod. You grinned.

When you entered the longhouse, family, friends and neighbours were already celebrating and the two of you were relatively unnoticed. Hrafna was sitting in Stigándi’s lap, and he had possessively wrapped an arm around her, his hand resting on her thigh.

She was stunningly beautiful.

“So, I guess this pretty girl is your daughter. Who else could you allow to wear my silk?”

You turned to Him, beaming with pride and love, tiptoeing to talk in His ear, and He obligingly leaned towards you.

“Yours, too.”

His face fell, and you feared to have made a terrible mistake. He stared at Hrafna, studying her features, His brows slightly frowned in concentration.

“Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t ask for anything. She has filled my days with joy and love.”

And it was true, for she had been your consolation when you longed for Him, because she looked so much like Him.

“It was like I could see you each and every day. I can’t be grateful enough for this gift.”

He took your calloused hand in His long, pale fingers, conflicted emotions swirling in His eyes. Eventually He settled a warm gaze in yours.

“You are even a better trickster than me, you vixen. This is no small achievement.”

He winked, and you gave Him a smug smile, laughing at His false indignation.

“Does she know?”

You shook your head.

“I believe Már suspected it, but he never clearly talked of it. He raised her as our other children and made sure she would have a very decent dowry.”

He groaned in approval and nodded.

“He was a good man. I expected him to be a good husband.”

“He was”, you whispered.

Had you loved him? Yes, definitely, with deep tenderness. He had been a support and your lodestar all these years, forbidding to talk of your liaison with the God, but also dealing very well with its consequences.

“You mortals are full of resources”, He whispered, caressing an unruly lock of your hair and replacing it behind your ear.

He turned to the door and exited. You followed Him and when you passed the threshold, He had already vanished.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Mansöngsskvæði ' means 'poem for a girl' in old Norse. These poems to seduce girls were strictly forbidden by law.


End file.
